Class _ 
Book. 

Copyright^' . 




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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



POEMS 



BY 



CLARA A. MERRILL 




' ' Take me back to the home 
Of my youth once again — 

To the dear Pine Tree State— 
The Old State of Maine. ' > 



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Copyrighted 1915 
CLARA A. MERRILL 



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IERRILL & WEBBER CO. PR3. AUBURN 



CI.A414471 

NOV -81915 



CONTENTS 



The Old State of Maine 5 

All Things Speak of God 7 

Welcome to Summer 9 

Ode to the Northern Lights 11 

The Songs My Mother Sung 13 

In Memory of Appey M. Merrill 15 

God is Love and We shall Know 18 

A Winter Outing 20 

Home is Where the Heart Dwells 24 

The Mystic Eiver 26 

Loved Ones Passed Away 28 

Adventure of a Lover 30 

As it Happened 32 

The Captive Butterfly 34 

What Would They Do? 36 

Courageousness 39 

Tales that were Told 42 

Bravery 46 

The Missing Link 48 

He Got Left 50 

The Jay and the Frog 53 

The Cottage by the Kiver 56 

The Poet to the Artist 59 

The Tramp 's Story 61 

'Tis Easy to get Mistaken 65 

Song of a Suffragette 68 

Kural Delight 70 

Look Up 72 



The Burning of the Turner Mill 74 

Carpe Diem 84 

A Bachelor's Comments on Women's Rights 85 

Wealth vs Virtue 88 

Be Merciful 91 

Sunshine on the Hill 93 

Your Eeal Wealth 95 

Changeable 97 

Pleasure 99 

Time Brings Changes 101 

Mamma 's Story 103 

Every Cloud Hath Silver Lining 106 

Dennis O 'Neil 's Dream 108 

A Lesson W r ell Taught 110 

Reminiscence 114 

Humorous 116 

Onward for Freedom and Right 118 

A Mystery Explained 120 

A Birthday Greeting 122 

All 's Well That Endeth Well 123 

A Tale from Mountain Grange 124 

Song of the Grangers ' 131 

Uncle Joe 's Soliloquy 133 

When Daddy Rocks the Kid 136 

Stop Talkin ' 138 

A Yule-Tide Missive 140 

The Hunter 143 

The Poetry Machine 145 

October 147 

To Mary 148 

The Winds do Blow 1 49 

Farewell to the San 151 

W r e Know Not Why 153 



(HJ|ta ItttU baak ta lomttghj fofctratrfc 



The memory of her beautiful life, and of her deep 
and unchanging love for me, — together with the knowl- 
edge of the interest she felt in my writings, fills me with a 
longing to do that which I know would be pleasing to her. 

For though the dear voice of her whom I so loved can 
no longer cheer and guide me on, yet in spirit I hear her 
gently whisper bidding me resume the work I had laid 
aside, 

Thus from my writings I have selected a few poems 
which, though submitted with diffidence, I hope may be 
kindly received by my many friends; and accepted by 
them with such degree of generosity as will enable them 
to throw the mantle of charity over the many short- 
comings, and to see any good that may chance to exist. 

And if from any of these poems there may perchance 
be found one little ray of sunshine — though it beams ever 
so faintly — that may radiate and give pleasure to even 
one appreciating heart, then surely I may feel that my labor 
will not have been wholly in vain. 

Clara A. Merrill 
The Author 



(Lbe ©to State of ZTTaine 



Sail on gallant bark, bearing onward your freight, 
Ye breezes blow briskly ! her sails to inflate, — 

See how her staunch prow the green billows will break, 
. And the path of white foam that she leaves in her wake ! 

Speed onward, ye courses of iron ! — Swiftly steals 

Away the bright rails as they fly 'neath your wheels. 

Bear me onward, fleet charger, nor yet me detain, 
Oh take me back home to my Old State of Maine ! 

When twilight's dark shade o'er the valley impends, 

And the pale crescent moon its refulgence blends ; 
Then fancy reverts to the long agone days, 

The sweet scenes of Childhood revisit our gaze ; 
And hill, vale and woodland our minds will employ, 

Expanding the bosom with infinite joy. 
Peal on, memory sweet ! Let me hear thy glad strain, 

Oh take me back home to my old Old State of Maine ! 

Tho' I traverse at will Old Neptune's domain, 

Or by fair country-side bounding river and plain ; 

In dreams I can see, — in their places once more 
Kind familiar faces, long since gone before, — 



€ POEMS BY CLABA A. MEBBILL 

And I dwell once again in the days that are past, 

Nor think, for the time, that naught earthly can last. 

Dream on, faithful muse, I have long sighed in vain, — 
Oh, take me back home to my Old State of Maine! 

From Katahdin's proud crest, to Atlantic's blue verge, 

New lights and new scenes in succession emerge; 
Silver lakes and green meads, in confusion arise 

In grand panorama to gladden our eyes. 
I love the old ingle, each nook, rock and knoll, 

And the country's dear flag that waves over the whole: 
Take me back to the home of my youth once again, 

To the dear Pine Tree State,— the Old State of Maine, 



ALL THINGS SPEAK OF GOD 



ALL THINGS SPEAK OF GOD 



The stars in their infinite beauty, 

And the moon in yon azure deep ; 
All speak of some great Duty — 

Of some tireless Watch to keep. 
This beautiful, beautiful world so grand — 

The trees, the birds and the flowers; 
All point with a beckoning hand, 

To a wisdom more potent than ours. 

Hear ye the Ocean speaking — 

Hear ye the surges roar ! 
As the wild-winged winds come shrieking 

From some far distant shore. 
Is there not something greater 

Than the power of Man alone? 
Aye, the power of the Creator 

Is far greater than our own. 

See ye the lightning flashing — 

Now, as in anger comes 
Booming, rolling, crashing 

Like a hundred beating drums 



POEMS BY CLABA A. MEBFILL 

Peals of terrific thunder — 

We stand in silence, awed; 
We can but pause and wonder 

At the infinite power of God ! 

And thou, oh mighty torrent 

Flowing on, and on, through time — 

Tell us, who sends thy current 
O'er the cataract sublime? 

And thou, gigantic mountain — 
Canst tell us whence thy birth — 

Sprang thou from some living fountain- 
How into existence came this earth? 

Could we doubt for a single hour 

That these marvelous works were lent 
By the high and wondrous power 

Of One Omnipotent? 
Nay ! tho ' we seek where man ne 'er trod 

And traverse sea or land; 
It seems that all things speak of God — 

And a Loving Father's hand. 



WELCOME TO SUMMER 



WELCOME TO SUMMER 



The south wind returns with a gentle caress 

And it kisses the lakelets 7 bright weaves; 
And softly it moans in low musical tones 

As it sighs through the mystical caves. 
Sweet Summer is waiting to welcome the rose, 

Who is queen of the flowery band — 
In regal robes new and jewels of dew 

She with majestic grace will command. 

Drowsy and low is the hum of the bees 

As the nectar they sip from the bloom ; 
The rivulet courses, all nature rejoices, 

For Winter is laid in the tomb. 
Gaily among the green arches the birds 

Pour forth their thanksgiving in song; 
Their clear, mellow notes in pure cadence floats 

As the echoing gale sweeps along. 

The hillside with blushes lifts up its fair head 
In its verdurous beauty so proud; 

And the flower-faces gleam as a loving sunbeam 
Wafts down from the light fleecy cloud. 



10 POEMS BY CLABA A. MEKBILL 

The grand, lofty mountain where hangs the white mist 
Tells the brooklets of Summer's warm glow; 

And they in turn hail each glen, woodland and vale 
Where the soft willow catkins bend low. 

The flowerets join the harmonious strain 

With the cii( ket, the bird and the bee; 
And the rippling rill the sweet chorus will trill 

On its clear winding way to the sea. 
'Neath the gnarled oak tree by the silvery lake 

Are the fairies all robed in white; 
Awaiting their queen, for they dance at e'en 

By the fireflies magical light. 

Then come to the country so grand — 

come to the old oaken tree 
Where mystical notes on the gentle breeze floats 

And the fays dance so gay on the lea. 
come to the old oak tree 

Where the ivy so lovingly twines, 
And Zephyr's warm kiss so freighted with bliss 

Is perfumed by the evergreen pines. 



ODE TO THE NORTHERN LIGHTS 11 



ODE TO THE NORTHERN LIGHTS 



Aurora-borealis : — Thy secret vast 

Hast ne'er by Man been found — 
As, through the Ages of the Past 

From Times remotest bound 
When Night her sable curtains fold 

O'er all the earth, then high 
'Mid star-gemmed canopy — behold 

Thy rays illume the sky ! 

Canst tell — ye ice-bergs of the North — 

Whence comes these waves of light 
Whose golden splendor shimmers forth 

To greet the Queen of Night — 
Dost power that welds thy icy chain 

And casts thy fetters strong 
Ere thus make radiant thy domain 

As the ages creep along? 

Ye wavering light! — Afar on high 
Shines forth, like chastening rod 

That Power, reflecting on the sky 
The mighty Hand of God ! 



12 



POEMS BY CLARA A. ME EH ILL 



Then bow, ye mortal monarchs brave 
Before thy crumbling throne ! 

Aurora's beams shall deck thy grave 
When a hundred years are flown. 




THE SONGS MY MOTHER SUNG 13 

THE SOXGS MY MOTHER SUXG 
(Dear Mother) 

Round the homestead old I wandered, 

Slowly, and with silent tread; 
And at last I turned my footsteps 

To the chamber overhead. 
There, among the broken rubbish, 

Where the cobw T ebs thickly hung; 
Something sent my thoughts far backward 

To the songs my mother sung. 

That old fashioned, wooden cradle 

Which I slept in when a child ; 
As my mother sat beside me 

Singing ever low and mild. 
With her foot upon the rocker, 

To and fro the cradle swung; 
Peacefully I lay and listened 

To the songs my mother sung. 

Long ago was that old cradle 

Banished to the dust and gloom 
'Neath the dark and musty rafters 

Of that unused lumber room. 



14 POEMS BY CLARA A. MEBBILL 

Long had it remained forgotten, — 
Yet fond memory quickly sprung 

As I view'd the dear old relic — 
To the songs my mother sung. 

Oft I've roamed in distant places, 

I have traveled far and wide ; 
And I know the hours most care-free 

Were those spent by mother's side. 
While the bell of Time is tolling 

With its harsh unfeeling tongue ; 
In my memory I shall cherish 

All the songs my mother sung. 



/A' MEMOEY OF APPEY M. MEEEILL 15 

IN MEMORY OF APPEY M. MERRILL 

Who Died Nov. 20th, 1903 

Softly, sweetly she is sleeping 

Where the slender grasses wave; 
Daisies bright, their vigil keeping 

O'er her calm and peaceful grave. 
Naught can e'er disturb her slumber — 

Passed all pain — from sorrow free; 
Gone from earth, to join the number 

O'er the silent, mystic sea. 

Sweetly sleep, dear, gentle sister, 

Tranquil ever be thy rest, — 
Yet, ah yet, how we have missed her — 

Gone from those she loved the best. 
Gone from the home. — and o'er her pillow 

Strewn with flowers, so fair and white 
Fell tears, and grief like surging billow 

Touched the heart with withering blight. 

Time can ne'er efface our sadness — 

Still the heart's filled with despair 
For the loved one, who in gladness 

Made the earth-home bright and fair. 



16 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEBEILL 

Sad the way seems now, and lonely, 
As we journey day by day 

Paths through which she wandered, only 
Scattering brightness o'er the way. 

Memory points with beckoning finger 

Through the mists of long ago 
To her songs, which sweetly linger 

In the hush of twilight's glow — 
Points to words of comfort, spoken 

By those lips so good and true — 
Tells of her love, so true, unbroken, 

And we weep in grief anew. 

For the gentle hands lie folded, 

And the pure heart now is still; 
And the brow, in beauty molded 

By the Hand of Death, so chill 
Is now at rest. — Yet visions brightly 

Through the misty haze will bring 
A joy, like whispered promise, lightly 

Wafted as on Zephyr's wing. 



IN MEMOEY OF APPEY M. MEBBILL 17 

Visions of that promised splendor 

Of a mansion fair, on high; 
Where, with welcome warm and tender 

She will greet us by and by. — 
By and by — sweet hope, elating — 

When the Voice that bid dear Appey sleep 
Shall call us forth, where she is waiting, 

Ne'er to part, no more to weep. 




18 POEMS BY CLASA A. MEKEILL 



GOD IS LOVE AND WE SHALL KNOW 



When the darkness seems to gather 

O'er the dawn of hope and peace; 
Like the storm-cloud towering upward 

Which the wild w^inds e'er increase, — 
And, like angry ocean billows 

Fainting soul is fraught with woe ; 
And we're longing for our loved ones — 

Does the Heavenly Father know? 

Though He notes the fallen sparrow — 

Does He heed the child who weeps — 
Does He see my tears fast falling 

O'er the grave where Sister sleeps? 
When the bitter sob of anguish 

Mingles with the earnest prayer; 
Pleading for His love and comfort 

Does the Heavenly Father care? 

Will He in His loving wisdom 

Send that sweet peace bye and bye — 

When the eye can gaze far upward 
To the brighter realms on high? 



GOB IS LOVE AND WE SHALL KNOW 19 

As the way-worn, weary pilgrim 

Turns his footsteps toward the grave ; 

And 'neath load of sin he falleth — 
Will the Heavenly Father save? 

In that home where friends await us 

Shall we know them when we meet — 
Will they seem the same dear loved ones 

That on earth we used to greet? — 
Mystic thoughts — Ah ! who can tell us 

All that Fancy fain would know? 
"God is Love" and "We shall know then" 

Faith responds in answer low. 



POEMS BY CLARA A. MEBRILL 



A WINTER OUTIXG 



Get up Sam, 'n 5 harness Nancy, 

Shake the hayseed from yer head ; 
We are goin' on a 's'cursion, 

Goin' on the old bob-sled; 
Won't the folks think we are handsome, 

As we pass the village street; 
With the old horse-blanket round us, 

And a bed-quilt at our feet ! 

Won't they stare with mouths wide open, 

When they see our fine turn-out? 
Stare away, ye duck-leg 'd dandy — ■ 

Guess we know what we're about! 
Won't they think that Sam's a daisy, 

Settin' there so grand 'n' straight — 
Wonder what they'll think of Phoebe 

With her sleepy-lookin' pate? 

Have yer got the harness mended? 

Well, go tie it with a string ! 
Fix it so's 'twill hold together; 

Take a rope, or anything! 



a\ in XT?J I? OUTING 

Drive a nail into the fender ! 

It won't wobble then, I hope, — 
The thill is broken in two places? 

Here — come get this other rope ! 

Then go brush old Nancy's foretop, 

From her mane pick off the hay; 
In a knot then tie her tail up 

So it won't be in the way. 
Tie a greased rag round her spavin ! 

To let 'er hurt it won't be right, — 
Say! d'ye spose we'll want the larntern, 

When we're comin' home tonight? 

Wish we had a nigger driver, 

Then I guess we'd go in style; 
We'd make the people gaze before 

We 'd been a half a mile ! 
Come now, hurry, Jake and Lydia, — 

Have ye washed yer? where 's the comb? 
Come now, hurry, — let's start early, 

So we'll find the folks at home. 

Hope Aunt Hulda 11 bile some 'taters ; 

Won't we ply the knife and fork? 
Hope she'll have a Injun pudd'n! 

Hope she '11 have a hunk of pork ! 



POEMS BY CLABA A. MEBBILL 

Marm, bring out that bag o ' apples ! 

See them youngsters fight 'n' scratch! 
Shut the door 'n' crawl out o' the winder! 

Stick the scissors in the latch ! 

Now we're off, as sure as preachin' 

Sun is in the eastern sky, — 
Nancy ! Nancy ! don 't git frisky ! 

My ! but aint the critter high ! 
Phoebe, tuck that blanket round yer, 

Have ye got yer gaiters on? 
Gosh — I've left my pipe 'n' barker, 

Clean forgot 'em sure's yer born! 

Sam, set over side of Lydia — 

Marm 'n' me will set in front, — 
Thought I'd get a jug o' 'lasses, 

But I swan, I guess I won't. 
Got to stop 'n' buy some 'barker — 

Can't git through the day without. 
Double up yer long legs, Sammy — ■ 

Stop yer sprawlin' like a lout! 

Hold on Bill ! ye '11 git a tumble — 

Ye '11 be slidin' on yer head! 
Jake, SET DOWN ! or I shall send ye 

To the other end o' the sled! 



A WINTER OUTING 

There, now see if yell keep quiet — 
Billy, Sh ! shut up yer beak ! 

Mustn't holler by the houses, — 
Bad enough to look 'n peek. 

Without a squallin' like a 'n Injun! 

Guess yer mammy was a squaw, — 
What! he keeps his chin a goin' 

Just the image of his Pa? 
Get up Nancy ! Show yer sperit ! 

Whoop-along thar, Nancy — climb ! 
Durn ye, git a wiggle on ye — 

We sha'n't be back 'fore milkin' time. 



21 POEMS BY CLABA A. M EBB ILL 



HOME IS WHEBE THE HEAET DWELLS 



Would I leave my home — my native hills 

For the city by the sea — 
Or leave the lane where the woodbine swings 

And all is dear to me? 
Would I leave my birds for the stately ships 

That sail in the harbor blue — 
Leave the flowers, fresh from the hand of God 

And kissed by the morning dew? 

Would I leave my cot for a mansion grand 

In the city by the sea, — 
Or leave the friends whom I long have loved 

Who are so dear to me? 
Would I leave my bower mid the roses sweet 

Where the sun shines bright and fair — 
Leave my pleasant strolls in the forest glade 

In the country's fragrant air? 

Nay, I'd not leave my peaceful hill 

For the city by the sea — 
Here earliest recollection clings 

And all is dear to me. — 



ROME IS WHERE TEE HEART DWELLS 



25 



I 'd not leave my cot where the willows wave 
For the city 's proudest dome ! 

Where e'er the heart in fondness dwells 
To me is "Home Sweet Home." 




26 POEMS BY CLABA A. MEEBILL 



THE MYSTIC RIVER 



We are sailing down Life's river — 

Sailing onward day by day, 
Onward, through the misty shadows 

That, so dark, obscure the way. 
Soon we shall be beckoned homeward, 

There to meet with those we know 
In that grand and glorious city 

Where no sorrows ever go. 

We are drifting with the ripples, — 

As they bear our barque along 
We can catch in fitful accents 

Echoes from the angels song. — 
And we see the dim reflection 

Of that bright celestial strand; 
Where the bowers are ever blooming 

In that peaceful, happy land. 

We know not how soon we'll anchor 

Where bright gems adorn the shore — 
Where the living waters murmur, 
And the breakers moan no more. — 



TEE MYSTIC BIYEB 

But well reach the pearly portal 
And we'll lay our armor down; 

Casting all our burdens from us 
'Neath the shelter of a crown. 

Near the Throne of Love e'er dwelling, 

Sheltered safe from every woe; 
No more sorrow, no more weeping, 

Naught but glory shall we know. 
There we shall be ever happy 

In the mansion of the blest ; 
Blessed be the peace eternal — 

Blessed is the sweet word — Rest. 



POEMS BY CLARA A. MEEBILL 



LOVED OXES PASSED AWAY 



Within our home so cheerful 

Where all is warm and bright ; 
Sometimes our hearts grow tearful, 

And to darkness turns the light. 
We see not the joys that surround us — 

We heed not our friends bright and gay; 
For memories come crowding around us 

Of loved ones passed away. 

Without, the old home is the same, 

Yet within, there is a change ; 
And feelings which we cannot name 

Steal o'er us, sad and strange. 
We see the dear forms of long ago, 

Illume the twilight gray, — 
Yet the darksome silence whispers low 

Of loved ones passed away. 

We see them as we did of yore 
In the dear old days long past ; 

Ere they were called to the other shore, — 
But those fancies cannot last. 



LOVED ONES PASSED AWAY 



29 



And though the heart in fondness seeks 
To bid them longer stay — 

Yonder grim churchyard mutely speaks 
Of loved ones passed away. 




SO POEMS BY CLAJRA A. MEEEILL 



ADVEXTVRE OF A LOVER 



'Twas Saturday eve. — The love-lorn swain 
Was hastening toward Jennie 's house ; 

His mien indicative of fear 
For neither man nor mouse. 



But ere he reached the farmhouse gate 
An object he chanced to spy. — 

Twas only a table-cloth Jennie had washed 
And hung on the line to dry. 



But he knew it not. so there he stood 

Deciding what to do, — 
He dare not venture too near the spook, — 

Yet the gate he must go through ! — 

The white cloth flapped in the gentle breeze- 
'Twas too much for Jennie's beau; 

He turned and ran off down the hill 
As fast as he could go ! 



ADVENTURE OF A LOVER 31 

He imagined that footsteps were following fast, — 

So away like a gale ran he; 
Nor did he stop, till he reached the top 

Of Squire Pettigrew's crab-apple tree! 



Just then the moon, with a bright smiling face, 

Came out from behind a black cloud, — 
Little Nell, at the window, stood watching the moon, 

And she uttered a cry long and loud. — 

" Oh ! Mamma ! — come look at this queer looking bird — 

An owl is perched up in our tree \ — 
Or is it a night-hawk just taking a rest — 

What kind of a bird can it be?" 

Miss Jennie came tripping along down the street, 

In the hope of meeting her lover; — 
Then he quietly let himself down from the tree 

Before she had time to discover. 

Then arm in arm they returned to the gate, — • 

And he blushed, as in silence stood he 
And saw the white spectre, which drove him in fright 

To the top of the crab-apple tree! 



POEMS BY CLABA A. MEBBILL 



AS IT HAPPENED 



As the circus train passed through the street 

An Elephant caught the eye 
Of a "rural duffer," who remarked 

As the creature lumbered by, — 
While a wondering look stole o 'er his phiz — 

(Xo artist's hand could paint it;) 
"Wa-al neow, Maria, — I swan to man 

That's quite an insect, aint itf" 

A city swell heard the remark, 

And quickly turned his nose 
Up, with an air that plainly said: 

"Such horrid folks as those 
May go their way — for they'll pollute 

The very atmosphere 
With their uncouth ways and ignorance — 

We can't endure them here!" 



The time rolled on, — and the city swell 
AYas brought to account one day 

For the many bills and debts he owed- 
He had not a cent to pay. 



AS IT HAPPENED 33 



His creditors gobbled all his goods 

And set them up for sale; 
But the cash they brought did not suffice 

So they marched him off to jail. — 



The " duffer " shook his jolly sides 

With a hearty, merry laugh ; 
And recalled the time when he ' ' so shocked 

The insipid city calf." 
"I pay my bills as I go along — 

I owe no man/ 7 said he; 
"There's no insect born that can compete 

With a biped such as he!" 




34 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEBEILL 



THE CAPTIVE BUTTERFLY 

(A true tale) 

One morn as I walked in the meadow 
Where flooded the sun's golden light 

Athwart tree and shrub — mid the grasses 
A butterfly gorgeous and bright 

Was caught in a web which a spider 
Had deftly and craftily wrought ; 

Aloft as a snare she had placed it 
And the unwary butterfly caught. 

Vainly the poor insect fluttered 

To be freed from the web 's fleecy fold ; 

But its wings were caught fast in its meshes 
And its fate could be plainly foretold. 

It appealed to my heart so pathetic 
Ne'er thought I to ignore its strife 

It was one of G-od's own little creatures 
And it had a good right to its life. 



THE CAPTIVE BUTTEEFLY 35 

So I knelt there beside the small captive 

And gently the fine web I tore ; 
Then away on glad wings it bounded, 

Kejoicing in freedom once more. 

It w T as only a poor lowly insect, 

Yet perchance, does the Good Father see 
Small deeds that are wrought in the spirit of love 

He would say "Ye did this unto Me." 

In the Book where all works are recorded — 

In that Haven up yonder so fair; 
Who knows but one mark bright and shining 

Now illumines my name "over there." 



36 POEMS BY CLABA A. MEJRFILL 



WHAT WOULD THEY DO? 



'Tis true that the city is pleasant. 

With its scenes ever varied and new ; 
But if it were not for the country 

m 

Oh, what would the city folks do? 
Soon plenty would be superseded 

By dearth with its train of distress; 
The gaunt wolf would roam by the once happy home 

Though riches untold you possess. 

True, this may seem strangely in error, 

But doubtless, if you will take heed 
You'll find that the sources are rural 

Of that which supplies every need. 
You say there are great mills and factories 

By whose process rich fabrics are made ; 
But pause for a moment and ponder 

How the material first came into trade. 

Of Fashion's apparel so dainty. 

Of which our great stores are so full; 
"Whence comes that from which they were made — 

The cotton, the silk and the wool? 



WHAT WOULD THEY DO 37 

'Tis not from the city — no, never! 

But from the free sunshine and air 
On the broad, verdant acres extending 

O'er the glorious country so fair. 

Tis true that the city has pleasures, 

And aspirants to fashion and fame, — 
But yet, should you search -the world over 

You'll find it is ever the same. 
'Tis the toil-harden 'd hand of the farmer 

By which are the multitude fed, — 
Yea, the farmer — the "hard-handed" duff cr. 

Who supplies the vast cities with bread. 

'Tis the farmer who toils on, unheeding 

The mid-summer sun and the rain. 
Who with diligence plucks the tares from the wheat 

And garners the golden grain. 
From the forests afar down the valley 

Or up over mountainous height 
Is sent timber for use in the city, 

And fuel to make the hearths bright. 

The orchards, the fields and the mead lands 
Fraught with richness from West to the East 

Send forth to the homes in the city 
Rich viands and fruits for the feast. 



88 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEEEILL 

True, the brilliant paved streets are abounding 
With wonders and charms ever new — 

But, if from the country excluded 
Oh ! what would the city folks do ? 

Then have praise and respect for the farmer — 

Be cordial to him when you meet — 
Ne'er pass him with countenance scornful 

Or gaze at the "old codger's'' feet, 
Though he has not the costly apparel 

Which you wear with such elegant grace — 
Remember, you can't live without him 

Nor can aught in the world fill his place. 




COUBAGEOUSNESS 39 



CO URA GEO USNESS 



The house-wife came with smiling face, 

Bearing in her hand a broom ; 
With thoughts intent, and puropse bent 

On clearing up the room. 
She spied an object on the floor, 

Ne'er dreaming what it was; 
But close inspection soon revealed 

Its tail and head and claws ! 

What was the sound that pierced the air — 

Was it an Indian's yell? 
Or a wandering note from some demon throat 

From amidst the depths of — somewhere? 
Oh, no ! of a different origin 

Were the tones that smote the air, — 
'Twas only a frightened woman's scream 

As she mounted on a chair. 

Oh dear ! Oh dear ! she had seen a mouse ! 

And it entered not her head 
It would never, never do more harm 

For the poor little thing was dead. 



40 POEMS BY CLARA A. ME I? BILL 

It seems the cat, in hunting, had 
Caught more than she could master; 

Of course old pussy never guessed 
That it would cause disaster. 

The mouse was in mischief, so old Puss 

Had caught him in the night; 
But the lady never paused to think 

Whether it was w T rong or right. 
She knew 'twas a mouse — a horrid mouse. 

And there she stood, dismayed; 
What could she do, with no one near 

To whom to appeal for aid? 

She stood for what seemed hours to her, — 

(Her weapon was the broom;) 
Waiting in vain for some one to come 

And take her from the room. 
At last she thought of a beautiful plan, 

And making good her aim ; 
Jumped, and landed two yards the other side 

Of the animal's prostrate frame! 



A short time thence her hubby came. 

He saw the signs of storm ; 
And to his brawny bosom close 

He drew her fainting form. 



COUBAGEOUSNESS 41 

When he had searched, and found the cause — 

So motionless and stark; 
Then to himself in undertone 

He ventured this remark: — 

u Women may talk about their rights 

And wish for a chance to vote ; 
Put on the airs of a gentleman 

And don the vest and coat, — 
They'd better be content to wait 

Until it can be said 
That they are brave enough to fight 

A mouse when it is dead ! ' ' 




POEMS BY CLAJRA A. MEBBILL 



TALES THAT WERE TOLD 



A decanter and a crystal cup 

Met in a banquet hall; 
The rosy light of the sparkling wine 

Shed radiance over all. 
Ah, ha ! old friend — and how is this — 

What is your mission here? 
"A pure, sweet spirit bid me come," 

Replied the water clear. 

"So we have met," said the ruby wine, 

"Now let us social be, — 
Let's see who holds the greater power 

O'er the nation, you or me." 
"Z can boast" said he, "of mighty deeds — 

I can tell you many a tale 
Of woe, and folly, sin and crime, — i 

Can you, my friend so frail? 

I have caused Old Age to droop and die — 
I have caused fair Youth to fade; 

I have blighted lives, and hopes destroyed,- 
When I strike there is no aid. 



TALES THAT WERE TOLD 43 

I have hurled men down from their high estate — 

Remorseful I'm not in the least, — 
I have dragged them down, and down, until 

They were level with the beast. 

I have happy homes made desolate 

Ha, ha ! I laugh with glee 
As I see the babes every comfort denied. 

While the money is wasted on me ! 
Tell me, my friend, Oh tell me I pray, 

Of a power that is greater than mine — 
Not yours — Xo! you are but water weak, 

While I am the fiery wine! 

And though I am classed in the bar-room 

Under many a different name, — 
Xo matter what liquor they call me. 

My spirit is always the same. 
I have sunk big ships — Yes, sank them down 

In the depths of the briny deep ; 
And for the loved who perished there 

Their kindred e'er may w r eep. 

I have wrecked the train — I have mansions burned 
— 'Neath my power man's senses flee — 

I have cast proud monarchs from their throne, — 
Behold! this wrought by Me! 



44 POEMS BY CLARA A. MERRILL 

And this I say is not the half 
Of the great success I win — 

But I'll no longer take the time 
So you, pale friend, begin." 



"I do not boast " the water said. 

Though my power is as potent as yours; 
For to all who freely drink of mel 

It health and strength insures. 
I gently sooth the sick and the faint, 

I new life in the weary imbue ; 
And even the roses smile sweetly and bright 

As I touch them with kisses of dew. 

I turn the mill which grinds the grain — 

I strengthen, I cleanse, I heal; 
All things rejoice with grateful breath 

When my cool hand they feel. 
I send the brooklet on its way — 

I lift the drooping vine, — 
I make all vegetation grow — 

Can you do that, Sir Wine? 



TALES THAT WE BE TOLD 45 



Of our might and power we '11 not dispute- 

(The result of our deeds will show;) 
For the worth of me and the curse of you 

All noble minded know. 
No, no ! Sir Wine, Your path is death, 

While mine is safely trod; 
You are cursed by a demon's hand — 

/, blessed by the hand of God. 



46 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MERKILL 



BRAVERY 



A youth once went to a party 

Whose sweetheart was there with the rest ; 
The moments that flew on swift pinions 

Were enjoyed with great fervor and zest. 
'Til at length came the time for dispersing. 

When each went their various ways — 
This fond youth escorting his sweetheart — 

His heart with emotion ablaze. 

On his sleeve her hand trustingly rested 

As they wended their way through the wood, — 
When lo ! a white spectre before them 

Appeared. — In their pathw r ay it stood 
Like a Goblin, with long arms extended 

It swayed, while a wild, w T eird note 
Like the wail of a disparing spirit 

Came issuing from the Ghost's throat. 

'Twas too much for our hero — and turning 

He ran in the wildest alarm ; 
And left his companion in terror — 

But a word from Sir Ghost made her calm. 



BE AVE BY 



47 



The echoing footsteps grew fainter 

'Til at last in the distance they fade — ■ 

The rival then threw off the mystic 

And boldly walked home with the maid! 




48 POEMS BY CLARA A. MERRILL 



THE MISSING LINK 



The theory of Darwin 

With evidence was bound; 
But when the chain was broken 

One link could not be found 
Connecting Man and Monkey, — 

Yet Modern Science shows 
Advancement which may nearly 

That missing link disclose. 

The "Telephonic System'' 

Has spread near and afar; 
Until the Way-Back County 

And Town connected are. 
Thus, sturdy "country Jamie," 

With hands and cheeks so brown 
And heart so true and loyal, 

Can call up Reg. in town — 

"Dude Reggie" with the eyeglass, 
And hair in "done up" curls; 

With brain so weak he scarcely 
Can think of aught but ' ' Girls, ' - 



THE MISSING LINK 



40 



As at the 'phone they linger, 
The line does then, I think; 

Connect the Man and Monkey 
And forms The Missing Link ! 




50 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEERILL 



HE GOT LEFT 



1 ' I swan ! ' ' said farmer Joe one morn, — 
1 t Them pesky crows shan 't have my corn ! ' ' 
So he w r ent to work, and soon he found 
Two stakes, which he drove into the ground. 
Then he brought to light some ragged pants 
And a tattered coat soon found a chance ; 
While an old felt hat was perched for show 
Upon the head of the old scare-crow. 

One arm reached out while the other one 

Held to his breast a rusty gun. 

"There it is done, and now, " quoth he — 

"See which will beat — them crows or me!" 

So in the house the whole day he spent, 

Feeling at ease and w T ell content, — 

While a broad grin o 'er his features strayed 

As he tho't of the trick on the crows he'd played. 

Meanwhile, tw T o crows sat on a tr£e — 
The young said to the old one : — ' ' See 
That horrid thing that 's standing yonder — ■ 
What is he doing here I wonder ? 



HE GOT LEFT 51 

If he stays here what's to be done? 
For Mother, look, he 's got a gun ! 
Here in this tree all day I've stayed — 
Oh, Mother ! are yon not afraid f 

What shall we do ? it takes my breath — 
Must we stay here and starve to death — 
Do you s 'pose that old thing will hurt me ? 
I 'm just as hungry as I can be ! 
But to get my grub I don 't know how — ■ 
For see, he's looking at us now! 
And what on earth are we to do — 
Oh, Mother! I'm afraid, aren't you?" 

"You foolish child," the old crow said, 
"Fret not your silly little head — 
That is our Corn King good and true. 
He came and stayed here last year, too. — 
He has come to us, armed with a gun ; 
To tell us when the planting's done. 
He tells us that we need not fear, 
He'll protect us as long as he is here. 

He tells us — as he did before : — 
' Fear not the farmer any more ! ' 
Our honest Corn-King tells us right, — 
Come, let us go and have a bite! 



52 



POEMS BY CLAIR A A. MERRILL 



Let's pay our respects to the Corn-King true"- 
Then to the field of corn they flew. 
And the rest of the crows they did invite — ■ 
Not a hill of corn was left in sight! 




THE JAY AND THE FBOG 53 



TEE JAY AND TEE FROG 



A blue-jay sat on a hickory limb. 

And a bullfrog sat below 
On a tuft of grass, where rushes green 

Were waving to and fro. 
While near him lay the glassy pool 

Where the tad-poles leap'd in play; 
But the old frog's face wore a. troubled frown 

As he thus addressed the jay : — 

4 'Did I wear your dress of brilliant hue 

Instead of this coat of green ; 
I could have the best the world affords, 

And always live serene. 
You fly away to the fields of grain 

Or feast on the cherries high ; 
While I sit here 'neath the rushes cool. 

And snap at a wary fly." 

"Then why," said the jay, "If you wish to rise 

Do you not ascend this limb?' 
"I will! I will!" cried the silly frog, 

I 'm tired of folks that swim ! ' ' 



54 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEEEILL 

So he hopped from the tuft of grass to the tree, 
Then up where the branches divide ; 

Then with a grin he crawled along 
And perched by the blue-jay's side. 

u Fm big as you, I 'm big as you, ' ' 

Cried the frog in greatest glee; 
* ' I wish my friends could see me now — 

In this high society!" — 
But his joy waned. — As a flock of jays 

With one accord did rise 
And, swooping down, they pecked at him 

With harsh and jeering cries. 

'Till he was forced to quick retreat. — 

As the rushes green he seeks 
He said, as he leaped in the quiet pool 

And escaped their cruel beaks: — 
If this is the way the ' high class ' treats 

The lowly ones, 'tis clear 
'Tis best that we should be content 

To stay in our native sphere ! 



TEE JAY AXD THE FROG 55 

Moral 

When proud Ambition seeks to rise 

From its accustomed ways ; 
Oft jealousies will jeer and peck. 

As did the haughty jays. 



To all who chance to read this tale. 

Its simple warning speaks, — 
"Ye who aspire to sphere's aloft— 

Beware of vicious beaks!" 



56 POEMS BY CLARA A. ME SKILL 

THE COTTAGE BY THE RIVER 

(Lines on a very old house situated on the west shore of the 
Xezinscot river, and some distance from any other dwelling.) 

On the bank of Old Nezinscot, 

"Where the sparkling waters flow 
Down this sea-ward course, as freelv 

As the roving winds that blow. 
Stands a cottage by the river — 

(Built upon the side-hill plan; — 
Think it was a blacksmith built it 

Else it was a crazy man ! 

Must have been an awful ship wreck 

Once, upon Nezinscot 's waves; 
When a score or more of sailors 

Went down to their watery graves — 
All except old Robinson Crusoe, 

Guess he landed on a scow ; 
And this fact seems most emphatic 

For man ' ' Friday ' ' lives there now ! 

Probably, from out the wreckage 

They contrived to save their goods, — 

Then, with jack-knife and a hatchet 
Built this cottage in the woods — 



THE COTTAGE BY THE FIVER 57 

Must have been some ship-wreck 'd sailor 

By the angry tempest tossed — 
Or an aeronaut that landed 

Who with his balloon was lost, 

Doubtless, then, this lonely exile 

Fought the wild-cat and the bear — 
Else he'd not have pitched his cabin 

Forty miles from any where — 
Far away from habitation — 

Neither do we often find 
Houses that are built like this one 

With the front door on behind!) 

Though in this salubrious climate 

Often lurks the river fogs ; — 
Yet the sweet, halcyon chorus 

Of the whip-poor-wills and frogs 
When the twilight shadows gather 

And the sun sinks in the west — 
Calms and sooths the fever 'd pillow, 

Lulls the w T eary into rest. 

Then all hail — all hail to Crusoe 

(Or what ever was his name) 
Who discovered this fair haven, 

And in reverence well proclaim 



58 



POEMS BY CLABA A. MERBILL 



That to him who built this cottage 
We should ever give our thanks 

For the hours we've spent in pleasure 
On Nezinscot 's mossy banks ! 




THE POET TO THE ABTIST 5b 



THE POET TO THE ARTIST 

(To E. A. M.) 

You painted a beautiful picture 

And sent it a gift to me ; 

So I will write you a poem, — 

But what shall the poem be? 

Your picture, like beautiful sunset 

So brilliant, will ever be praised, — 

But my poem will be like a cipher 

That some rude, reckless hand has erased! 

Your picture seemed "Tidings of Gladness," 

— As the beautiful rainbow will cast 

Its bright, glowing tints on the billows 

Of clouds when the tempest is past. 

Like the unbounded depth of the Ocean 

Is the gratitude felt. — for your gift 

Was like rending dark storm-clouds asunder 

"When a sunbeam shines bright thro' the rift. 

Your picture was eagerly welcomed, 
— As the first rosy tints of the dawn 
Are welcomed by vigilant watchers 
When the curtains of Night are withdrawn. 



r 60 POEMS BY CLABA A. H EBB ILL 

— As the rose hails the dew of the evening 
When parched by the heat of the sun ; 
— As the hand, that with toil has grown weary 
Welcomes rest when the day's work is done — 

— So thus, for your picture a welcome 

Most fervent will e'er be secure 

But my poem — Ah ! what of my poem ? 

— There can scarcely be aught to endure. 

Tho' your picture's like beauteous landscape 
That by Artists will ever be praised ; 
— Yet my poem will be like a cipher 
That some rude, reckless hand has erased ! 




THE TBAMP'S SONG 61 



THE TRAMP'S STOEY 



Any work for me ! No ! I am sorry — 

For I'm weary, and hungry and cold ; 
You're wishing to hear my life's story? 

'Tis the first time it ever was told. 
Yes, friend, I w T ill tell you. A sorrow 

Extinguished the flame from life 's lamp ; 
Which made me a wanderer — an outcast — 

And why I am now called — a tramp. 

Well friend, I once was as happy 

As that little boy over there, — 
My cheeks were as rosy and chubby, 

And my soft, golden curls just as fair. 
But I then knew the care of a mother — 

A mother as noble and good 
As God ever gave to a fellow, 

And she did just the best that she could, 

To show me the path straight and narrow, 
And I never once wanted to stray 

Away from her side, where she taught me 
Each morning, and evening, to pray. 



POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEBEILL 

At length, when I attained manhood, 
The crowning joy came to my life ; 

And never was husband more happy 
Than I, with my sweet little wife. 

And she loved me so fondly and truly, 

It made all my toil seem like play ; 
I w r as working for her, and for baby — 

Baby Charlie I call him alway. 
Well, I got a snug home for my loved ones. 

And a good sum of money to spare ; 
'Twould have been like the Garden of Eden 

Had the Serpent not gained entrance there. 

But I had a dear friend — Jim Daley, 

The chum of my boyhood and youth ; 
And true, like a brother I loved him — 

For I thought him the ideal of Truth. 
At school we were always together. 

E'er shared with each other our joy; 
And only God knows how I loved him — 

This handsome, and proud, winsome boy. 

And I trusted him, friend, I trusted him 
With all that was sacred and dear 

To my heart, Yes, I trusted him fully — 
Nor dreamed I could have aught to fear. 



THE TE AMP'S SONG 63 



But one day he complained of reverses — 
Said his money just then was not free- 



There were bills he must pay on the morrow — 
And he wanted to borrow of me. 

So I loaned him all of the money 

I had saved for some chance rainy day, — 
And in less than a month I was homeless — 

My family were kidnapped away ! 
What inducement he tendered, I know not. 

Or whether 'twas mesmeric power 
Which lured my poor, true-hearted girlie 

From me and our beautiful bower. 

Were he here now, ah, could I forgive him — 

Would duty, and right, say I must ? 
Could I extend the hand-grasp of friendship 

To him who has broken that trust? 
I can only pray God to forgive him — 

And me. For with memory's stamp 
Comes the knowledge of why I am needy — 

And why people call me — a tramp. 

I sold our dear cot mid the roses, 

And stealthily set out to trace 
The whereabouts of my dear loved ones. 

And I wandered from place to place 



64 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEBBILL 

At last came the sorrowful tidings 
Of a ship going down in a gale, — • 

Their names, on the list of the lost ones ! 
And this is the end of the tale. 

From my great sorrow then I sought refuge, 

And I drifted from east to the west ; 
In my young days I worked hard and steady. 

In every place doing my best. 
But now there 's no work, — I 'm heart broken — 

Alone, in the cold and the damp, — 
To my poor heart it seems — save in Heaven 

There's no room for the poor, aged tramp. 




IT IS EA\SY TO GET MISTAKEN 65 



TIS EASY TO GET MISTAKEN 



In a cozy cot, mid bloom and leaf, 
There dwelt a woman very deaf, — 
If anything special she wished to hear 
She'd put a trumpet to her ear. 
Without the instrument, she could at best 
But hear some — and guess the rest. 

One day she laid it on a chair — 
Got up, and left it lying there — 
And went to work sweeping the floor 
Just as a peddler reached the door. 
And to the man it did occur 
That he might sell some goods to her. 

* ' Good morning Marm, fine day, ' ' quoth In 
"I thought I'd just call, and see" — 
' * Just come from sea ! is that what ye say f 
Well, and who are ye any way ? ' ' 
"Oh, pray excuse me marm! I said — 
I simply called to sell some thread" — 



66 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEEEILL 

1 ' Swell on the head ? well there I vow — 

What you been up to any how ? ' ' 

' ' Beg pardon marm ! ' ' — at her he stared, 

' * But is your hearing not impared ? ' ' 

"My herrings pared? Yes, scraped off the scales 

And then cut off the heads and tails ! ' ' 

The peddler's voice grew loud and louder: — 

' ' Say marm ! don 't you want to buy some powder ? 

Here is one dozen shell hair pins' ' — 

' ' What ! want to sell a pair of twins ? 

Why man, you make a body laugh, 

I'd rather buy a Jersey calf — 

Me ! buy them twins ! ' ' — ' ' Madam, your wrong ! 
Have been mistaken all along!"— 
"Didn't take 'em along? it's just as well, 
For twins ain't very good to sell." 
"Excuse me marm — but my belief 
Is that you must be a little deaf ! ' ' 

"A little beef? — for dinner — hey? 
Beef and herrings did you say?" 
' ' I didn 't say so ! " he loudly roar 'd^ — 
But his voice took wing and upward soar'd. 
"Don't worry — you won't have to wait, 
I'll get your dinner before 'tis late." 



IT IS EAiSY TO GET MISTAKEN 67 

' ' Don 't want no dinner ! ' ' he yelled in her ear, — 
' ' Gal darn ye ! can 't I make ye hear ? ' ' 
"Hain't got no beer for you, " said she, 
"You needn't get mad and swear at me!" 
"Beg pardon!'' he yelled with voice immense, 
"But I certainly mean't you no offence" — 

"Fence? you'll find out if there's a fence or not 
If you don 't get out — now ! on the spot ! 
All you know is to make comments — 
Great pile you know about our fence!" 
' ' To sell you something was my plan — 
Here Madam ! don 't you want a fan ? ' ' 

' k Me want a man ! how could you guess ! 
Of course my answer must be yes. 
Me! want a man! what's that I hear?" 
And she put the trumpet to her ear. 
"Don't shoot! don't shoot!" the peddler said. 
And instantly turned on his heel and fled. 



68 POEMS BY CLABA A. ME BE ILL 



SONG OF A SUFFRAGETTE 

With apologies to A. P. S. 

This world would be happy, and lovely indeed, 
If the men were banished, of them there 's no need ; 
Now the ambitious women must fight for their due — 
With the pesky men-folks we '11 have no more to do ! 

Chorus 

They don 't like to work. Oh no ! 
(Men and work don't agree you know.) 

With mouth full of Tobacco, at ease near the grate 

They '11 sit and vehemently expectorate ; 

And the women are lucky if they can keep out 

Of the streaks of tobacco-juice flying about ! 

Chorus 

And tobacco-smoke fragrant will flow 
In beautiful wreaths, you know! 

The women, poor things, must wash, mend and bake, 
And should there occur the slightest mistake 
The men-folks will growl, and help things along 
And emphasize things with language strong! 



SONG OF A SUFFRAGETTE 69 

Chorus 

Their masculine nature they show — 
(Rather groivl than ivork, you know!) 

"lis predicted the time is not far away 

When the men-folks, cast down, let the women hold sway ; 

The men w r ill be piled in one gigantic heap, 

Then Perfection's sweet presence the women will keep! 

Chorus 

For the women will work, and so 
They'll manage things nicely, you know! 




70 POEMS BY CLARA A. ME BE ILL 



RURAL DELIGHT 



The farmer in the early spring 

Plants fields of yellow corn — 
How cheerily we hear him sing 

While out in the dews of morn ! 
All thro' the long, bright Summer 

He works among the grain; 
And sees the tender corn blades grow 

Strengthen 'd by sun and rain. 

He sees with pride the yellow silk 

Around the corn-cob curled, — 
Oh, the jolly, jolly farmer 

Is the happiest chap in the world. 
How the cows do love, at supper time 

To eat the sweet corn meal ! 
How eager are they for their share 

As the farmers dip and deal. 

The dairy maid with honest pride 
Beams, as with joy she sees 

The shelves that she with skill has piled 
With butter and with cheese. 



BUBAL DELIGHT 71 

When Autumn comes and big tall stalks 

With golden ears are laden; 
In order comes the "husking bee/' 

For merry Youth and Maiden. 

And when the ripe "red ear" is found 

By some pretty winsome miss 
The swain, ' ' Old Customs ' ' will observe 

And steal the wonted kiss. 
The music and the laughter soars 

To the rafters overhead; 
As they trip the "light fantastic toe" 

With an airy, fairy tread. 

Then the Pumpkin Pie and Doughnuts come. — 

At the close of the mazy dance 
Each swain escorts his sweetheart home 

(If he can get the chance!) 
Thus joy and love will enter in 

The lot with honest toil; 
As the farmer reaps his rich reward 

From tilling of the soil. 



72 POEMS BY CLAEA A. HEBBILL 



LOOK UP 

(Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.) 

Tis dreary now, a snowy shroud 

Lies white upon the ground ; 
While fierce and wild the piercing blast 

With chilling notes resound. 

Xo songs of birds — No crickets chirp, 

Xo busy hum of bees 
Ere floats aloft. — The Wood-nymphs sleep 

Within the leafless trees. 

All Xature's works now dormant lie 

'Xeath pure, white cover lid; 
The violets nestle snug and warm 

Prom harm securely hid. 

List ! Spring has sent her harbinger — 
And laden with garlands, she brings 

Perfumes that are sweet as the breath of the dawn 
On the sheen of her beautiful wings. 



LOOK UP 

Soft winds will follow in her wake 
And put to flight the snow — 

The bird-songs sweet will soon be heard 
In cadence soft and low. 

Then do not e'er grieve for adverse 

Conditions that exist, — 
The sun will show its sovereign power 

And drive away the mist ! 

Why reck we then tho' storms assail 
And winds hold wild career? 

Look up ! and feel within your heart 
That Summer now is here. 

Dispel the morbid sense of gloom! 

The bleak earth soon anew 
Shall bloom again, like flowerets fair 

Kissed by the summer dew. 



74 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEBEILL 



THE BURNING OF THE TURNER MILL 



Calmly dawned the Sabbath morning 
O'er Turner's hills and moors; 

And peaceful lay the village — 
By fair Nezinscot's shores. 

Rich and abundant blessings 
Seemed showering o'er the land 

Like dew T s of Heaven, diffusing 
As by some unseen Hand. 

A verdant, fertile valley 
That spread afar was seen; 

With anon interspersing 
The river's azure sheen. 

And on the green banks, winding 

In gentle, graceful curve; 
Where rank, tenebrous foliage 

The feather 'd nestlings serve. 

Stood giant oaks primeval, 

Which thrust their branches wide 

Where dancing ripples sparkled 
Upon the eddying tide. 



THE BUBNING OF THE TUEXEE MILL 

Bright spires, ever gleaming 

From tall majestic domes 
Like sentinels seemed guarding 

The scores of happy homes. 

A picture fair and lovely 

The landscape lay that morn, — 

As tho' by seraph painted 
Upon the wings of dawn. 



The first chimes from the steeples 
Rang out in accents clear; 

And like accordant music 
Fell on the listening ear. — 

As yet no note of sorrow 
Was mingled in their tone; 

They seemed like benedictions 
Descending from the Throne. 

No thought had the good people 
Of shadows hovering near — 

No thought that ere the noon-tide 
Full many a bitter tear 



76 POEMS BY CLARA A. MERRILL 

Would fall.— (Oh! all-wise Father- 
By thy supernal power 

Revert the pending danger 
Ere falls the fatal hour ! 

Ah ! why ? — our hearts may question,- 
Ye mortals! — none can tell! 

'Tis meet, on Him relying 
Who doeth all things well.) — 

Once more the bells' sweet music 
From all the belfrys rang; 

Bidding the folk to gather 

For worship. — Praise they sang. 

And as they turned their footsteps — ■ 
Each toward his wonted church ; 

All was serene and peaceful 
As far as eye could search. 

But hark ! What meant the tumult 

Arising in yon street — 
And why disperse those people 

With swiftly hurrying feet? — 



THE EVENING OF THE TUBNEB MILL 77 

And why that shrill voice shouting 

As if in dire alarm — 
Did'st know 'twas misdemeanor 

To break the Sabbath calm? — 

As onward sped the herald. 

With face the hue of death 
And wild-bright eyes, an instant 

He paused to regain breath, — 

Then quick, in tones reverberant 

That pealed from spire to spire 
Rang out the cry of terror: — 

"The mill! The mill's on fire!" 

(Thro' the surrounding valley, 

And o'er adjacent hill; 
The echoes oft repeated: — 

"There's fire in the mill!") 

Amazed were all the people — 

No word their lips could frame 
As on the breeze's soft pinions 

Again the wild cries came : — 



78 POEMS BY CLABA A. MEBBILL 

' ' The mill ! The mill is burning ! ' ' 
At last, as if from sleep 

They wakened to the danger, — 
Beheld a bright flame leap ! — 

Ascending and expanding. 
Columns of smoke arose 

As from volcanic crater 
Where molten lava flows. — 

Again the cry resounded: — 
"The mill is all on fire!"— 

And catching up the tidings 
The bells 'neath every spire 

Tolled franticly the warning. — 
With clanging, vibrant tongue 

They sent abroad the message 
The village folk among! 

Lo! Turner's happy village — 
That peaceful, pleasant scene 

Transformed in one brief moment 
To one of sorrow keen. — 



THE BURNING OF THE TUBNEB MILL 

The smoke grew darker, denser, 

Fierce flames leaped high and higher, — 

"Oh for Xiagarian torrent 
To quench the cruel fire!" 

Red tongues from every window 
Shot forth. — As fortress gray 

Shoots flame from belching cannon 
In battle's grim array. — 

As pillar after pillar 

Of smoke arose, which claimed 
The attention of the people 

As high the rafters flamed — 

As stood they mute, and helpless. 

While cinders rose and fell 
'Mid the crackling and roaring 

Xo mortal power could quell 

A cry to Heaven ascended — 
(Thro' bravest hearts a thrill 

Of horror crept:) — The proprietor 
Is in the burning mill!" 



80 POEMS BY CLABA A. ME BE ILL 

Then stood aghast the people, 
Astounded, stricken, dazed. — 

While in that glowing furnace 
The timbers cracked and blazed. 

And, as the smoke ascended 
In black, dense, billowy waves ; 

Each heart cried out in anguish : — 
"Oh Father, God who saves 

Look down in thy compassion ! ' ' — 
The mad flames dart and sway 

Like ruddy, fork-tongued dragons 
That swift devour their prey. — 

The winds sang a requiem, 
And many a silent prayer 

Arose. As smoke and flame illumined 
The sky with lurid glare. — 

Oh ! friends and loving kindred — 
Your hearts in grief must bow ; 

The proprietor of the factory 
Needs not your pity now ! 



THE EVENING OF THE TUBXEB MILL 81 



An Angel came and bore him. 

To that celestial shore 
Where all from earthly trials 

Shall triumph evermore. 



Once more the scene is pleasant 
O'er Turner's hills and moors; 

And peaceful lies the village 
By fair Nezinscot's shores. 

Green meadows ever rolling 
The pine-clad hills between 

With anon interspersing 
The river's azure sheen. 

And on its pebbly beaches, 

Where winds the glistening curve, 

Still soft, pendulous verdure 
The feathered nestlings serve. 

The lofty oaks primeval 

Still thrust their branches wide ; 
Where silvery wavelets sparkle 

Upon the bounding tide. 



82 POEMS BY CLARA A. M EH BILL 

Yet by the rushing waters 
That sweep adown the strand ; 

A silent, rugged spectre 
The grim old ruins stand. 

The bleak walls, rent and jagged, — 
As mountain walls might frown 

That thro' convulsive earthquake 
Its crest had swallowed down. 

The winds, thro' crevice wailing 
In sweetly plaintive air, 

A perpetual dirge descanteth 
For him, who perished there. 

Thro' all the years now vanished, 

Neglected and forlorn; 
It stands alone, and mutely 

Bespeaks of days agone. 

No loom or wheel is busy — 
Revolving band ne 'er whirrs — 

No " Factory bell" each morning 
The village folk bestirs. 



THE BURNING OF THE TURNER MILL 88 

No structure supersedeth 

Where flow these waters free ; — 
Tho' none can e'er determine 

What may in future be. 

Yet now, as rubious sunset 

In splendor gilds the waves ; 
And sweet, naiadic music 

Is wafting from the caves — 

Oft in disconsolation 

The zephyrs whisper still 
This tragic tale : — relating. 

The burning of the mill. 




84 POEMS BY CLARA A. MESEILL 



CARPE DIEM 



Pray, never search for hidden woes, 

Or grievous troubles borrow ; 
Nor cloud the sun today — in fear 

Lest it may rain tomorrow. 
God makes the sunshine and the rain 

Then, if today is pleasant 
Why worry o'er tomorrow's storm — 

Why not enjoy the present? 

It will not make the verdant hills 

Put on a brighter hue ; 
Nor will the canopy above 

Ere be a lesser blue 
If all our hours are spent in tears, — 

Then let us strive alway 
To see our many blessings, and 

Enjoy the present day. 



A BACHELOirS COMMENTS OX WOMEN'S EIGHTS 85 



A BACHELOR'S COMMENTS OX WOMEX'S RIGHTS 



Tis said the time is close at hand 

Which earnest thought invites — 
We 'If take up this expansive theme 

And speak on "Women's Rights." 
Methinks there's many a questions, now. 

Which worthy seems of note; 
What say we, then: Will all things change 

When the women have power to vote? 

Will they exchange places with the men — 

Tread where have trod their feet — 
And dig and delve all day, to get 

Things for the men to eat? 
Will the men folks stay in the house all day 

Dressed in their silks and laces — 
Their soft white hands bedecked with rings. 

And powder on their faces? 

AVill they play the piano, with no thought 

To the morrow ever giving — 
While the woman goes, and tries to find 

Some way to get a living ? 



86 POEMS BY CLARA A. MERRILL 

Will she be a carpenter, 

And build houses tall and grand ; 

And scale with might the dizzy height 
With hammer and saw in hand ? 

Will she be a soldier true 

And fight in uniform — 
Or will she be a sailor bold 

And brave the tempestuous storm? 
Will she like to make the mines 

Down underneath the ground 
And bring to light the precious gems 

In those dark and deep caves found ? 

Will she like to dig for ore 

Where the hidden metals are? 
Will she take her place on a railway train 

Or drive an electric car? 
How many will learn the dentist 's trade ? 

For they must learn it when 
The good new time comes — and the ladies 

Change places with the men. 

Can she build the massive bridges 
That the rushing waters span — 

Can she smoke and chew tobacco 
And do it like a man? 



A BACHELOR'S COMMENTS ON WOMEN'S BIGHTS 8\ 

Can she even be a farmer — 

Hold plow and drive the horse ? 
Should she change places with the men 

Why, then she can of course ! 

Then the liege lords will realize 

As darksome fears encroach ; 
Why the once fair sex in timidity 

Shrank from a mouse's approach 
Yes, the time is drawing nearer, — 

Yet one question still remains 
Will the world be any better 

When the women hold the reins? 




88 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEEEILL 



WEALTH vs VIRTUE 



By devious ways and endeavors, afar 

I sought, ascertaining if Gold 
And Virtue — that fairest of gems — were at par 

And in the same rank were enrolled. 

And, viewed with zest keen and undaunting, 
Often Gold has been found to out-weigh ; 

And the measure of Virtue ? Found wanting ! 
For gold hath power mighty to sway. 

For instance : Go mingle with people of style 

In church — you can easily note 
The smile and the shrug, as you pass down the aisle 

With frayed hat and a patch on your coat. 

Tho' your heart may be kindest of any. 

Time has flown since your clothing was new ; 

You are lacking in Wealth — ah ! how many 
Will bid you to enter their pew ? 

AYhile precedes you a lady, — so haughty and grand, 

Gaily trips she along down the aisle; 
Her rosy lips wreathed in smiles sweet and bland — 

She is clad in the most approved style. 



WEALTH vs VIBTUE 89 

You gaze on her features. Deceiver — 

Is stamped plainly there on her face, — 
Yet how eager are all to receive her — 

How quick to share with her their place ! 

Go e'en on the street in your sorrow — 

The wealthy and grand pass you by 
In comfort, No trouble they borrow. 

They see not the tear in your eye. 

Were you dressed in fine raiment so neatly, 

Your friendship would surely be theirs ; 
But now you are ignored completely, 

They heed not your pleadings or prayers. 

Often Riches will seek only Wealth's favored lot 

While Virtue seeks Virtue, abroad — 
Or in humble seclusion — In palace or cot. 

Knowing all are the children of God. 

Down the turbulent River of Life, ever move 

Misfortunes sad waifs, far from shore ; 
Whose struggles avail not. — Then doth it behoove 

Us to cast the Life Line to the poor. 



90 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEBBILL 

If, as it may, circumstances reverse, 

And we find ourselves level with men 
Who have seen, thro' affliction, their riches disperse,- 

Would we wish them to turn from us then? 

Jesus the Saviour has taught us the way, 

We will err not by following thus : 
"Do unto others' ' as near as w T e may 

"As we wish them to do unto us." 




BE MERCIFUL 91 



BE MERCIFUL 



Have mercy for the poor aged horse 

That has served you so faithful and true ; 
Be to him gentle, and treat him with care, 

He can feel just as keenly as you. 
Don't try to get speed when your horse is half starved. 

But let the poor creature alone; 
He is patient, submissive, a slave to your will, 

And obeys you with never a moan. 

So eager, and willing, yet feeble and lame. 

Mayhap is worn out with disease ; 
He is toiling along, his breath nearly gone. 

He is dreadfully weak in the knees. 
The harness, replete with prominent knots 

E 'er galls him on shoulder and breast ; 
His bright mournful eyes ask in vain for relief, 

His anguish is mutely expressed. 

You ignore his pleadings, you heed not his pain, 

Nor endeavor to lighten the load 
By using your own locomotion to take 

Yourself up the steep rocky road. 



92 POEMS BY CLARA A. MEBHILL 

Oh ! would that the spirit of pitying love 
Into these thoughtless hearts might instill. — 

There's many a man can dance all night — 
But 'twould harm him to walk up a hill! 




SUXSHIXE ON THE HILL 93 



SUXSHIXE OX THE HILL 



In the low-land where the shadows 

Gather at the close of day ; 
"When the sky in all its beauty 

Turns from blue to sombre grey, — 
Voices of the day are ceasing, 

Plaintively the night-birds trill, — 
In the distance, like a halo — 

Lo ! the sun shines on the hill ! 

When, like Wings of Night unfolded 

Sorrow casts its chilling shade; 
Causing all our joy to vanish 

And our cherished hopes to fade — 
When Oppressions hand shall smite us 

With a wrath that bodeth ill — 
Look beyond the vale's dark shadows 

To the sunshine on the hill ! 

Like a whispered benediction 

From the Realm of Light, so blest ; 

Steals those sacred words, in accents 
Sweet : * ' And I will give thee rest. ' ' — 



94 . 



POEMS BY CLARA A. MEEEILL 



Would we feel that peace and comfort 
In our drooping hearts instill, — 

Look beyond Life's fitful shadows 
To the Sunshine on the Hill. 




YOUB EEAL WEALTH 95 



YOUR REAL WEALTH 



Brethren, as you down life's pathway 

Pass with firm and stately tread 
When success shall crown your efforts 

And its glories round you shed — 
There's a truth that e'er existeth, — 

Though of high or lowly birth — 
When death's Angel for you calleth 

You'll own just "six feet of earth." 

Though you're rich in lands and mansions. 

Though you've gold and jewels rare — 
Though your life is bright and sunny 

Never knows a want or care. — 
Though a brother's life of sorrow 

Different is from yours of mirth ; 
Yet some day he'll be your equal — 

Both will own "six feet of earth." 

Turn your gaze to scenes Immortal — 
Is your chance of Heaven more sure 

Than the lowly one, possessing 
Naught of fame, but heart most pure ? 



96 POEMS BY CLARA A. MEJRBILL 

Nay, your riches ne'er can save yon, 

Virtue is the Gem of Worth; 
You your wealth can not take with you 

To the last "six feet of earth.' ' 

Jesus once was poor and lowly, 

And His crown held many a thorn ; 
Yet His heavenly Father loved Him 

As He suffered grief and scorn. — 
If your soul is pure and stainless 

You have Wealth, — there'll ne'er be dearth; 
When at last the clay is sleeping 

In your own "six feet of earth." 




CHANGEABLE 97 



CHANGEABLE 



Beneath an apple tree she sat 

Amid bright leaf and flower, 
Telling of what she would do, 

Were it within her power: 
She'd civilize the heathen poor, — 

She'd meet the wary foe, 
And drive them till their trackless paths 

Were through eternal snow. 

With strong nerve she would care for those 

Who are stricken down in war 
And cheer the sick and suffering ones 

Without a bit of awe. 
She'd soothe the fevered ones to rest 

And bathe each aching head, — 
And never would she shrink from pain, 

But bravely work, instead. 

But ah ! what caused her cheek to pale 

Ere she had ceased to speak — 
What made her start, w T ith fingers clenched, 

And give that awful shriek? 



98 



POEMS BY CLARA A. MEBBILL 



Where is the maiden, once so brave ? 

Ah ! nothing now can still her, — 
For lo ! upon her sleeve there lay 

A little caterpillar! 



PLEASURE 99 



PLEASURE 



'Twas a calm, still night and the big full moon 

Looked down with smile serene; 
And his watchful eye observed all things. 

And he called it a curious scene. 
All agreed 'tw T as a fine night for the dance, — 

We all were so light-hearted; 
Light-headed? No! but we wished to go 

And dance, so off we started. 

The night w T as fair and the w T atchful moon 

Shone almost bright as day ; 
So Jack, he harnessed the old white mare 

And hitched her to the sleigh. 
The old horse clipped a lively time 

Over the snow so cold, 
Like a frisky colt, — though the old horse 

Was twenty-five years old. 

Oh, the pure delight of that moon-lit drive 

As we dashed the plains across, — 
And chung, chung, chung, went the merry bells, 

The w r hile the old white horse 



100 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEJRBILL 

Kept merry time to the tuneful bells 

As over the snow we sped; 
And the soft and gentle zephyrs blew, 

And the moon its radiance shed. 

The time flew by on rapid wings. 

As it does when on pleasure bent ; 
And it was in the "wee small hours' ' 

Before w T e homeward went. 
Twas a beautiful, beautiful, evening, 

And the moon looked down so kind ; 
The world seemed full of music 

And poetry combined. 




TIME BEINGS CHANGES 101 



TIME BEINGS CHANGES 



She sat down by the kitchen fire, 
While munching bread and cheese ; 
With now and then a pancake hot, 
Her hunger to appease. 

"Ah me! how good this is, " she sighed 
As a cookie she stowed away; 
6 i I would that I a lunch could have 
Like this one every day I" — 

Next day her beau on her did call 
To take her for a ride; 
'Twas getting late — 'twas nearly noon 
When the mother her espied. 

And, anxious as all mammas are. 
As to how her daughter fared; 
Cried, " Just you wait a moment dear- 
IVe dinner all prepared.' ' 



102 POEMS BY CLARA A. MERRILL 

"Oh! mercy! no," — it was no use. 
She could not eat a mite 
She hardly ever cared for much — 
She had no appetite ! — 

Strange, wasn't it? that one day she 
Could eat a slice of steak, 
Potatoes, and a ham sandwich, 
With coffee, pie and cake, — 

Yet the next day, when her beau w r as nigh 
What changes it did bring! 
She was so dainty and so frail 
She could not eat a thing! 




MAMMA'S STORY 103 



MAMMA'S STORY 



Come hither my children. Sue, Archie, and Nell 
And listen to me as a story I tell 
How "once on a time/' in the mist and the fog 
Was a poor ragged boy, and a little brown dog. 
The dog, while at play, fell from a high bank 
Into a dark pool — and down, down it sank. 
To escape it endeavor 'd, but slow was its speed. 
For the treacherous mud did its progress impede. 

But the folks passing by took no heed of him 
Excepting to say — "Just see the pup swim!" 
Or, regardless of all save their own worldly pelf — 
"It is only a dog — Let it care for itself." 
Till a poor ragged urchin with pitying eye 
In passing that way the poor dog chanced to spy. — 
Quickly thrusting a stick within reach of its jaws 
It clung to it, and, with the aid of its paws 

Reached the top of the bank, with a loud joyous yelp — 

Ah ! none but this boy had offered it help ! 

Then he took it up kindly, 'neath his jacket to hold 

To protect the poor creature, now shivering with cold. 



104 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEEEILL 

As snugly it nestled 'neath the boy 's ragged frock 

It said (as plainly as a poor dog can talk) 

I love you, dear friend — I'll help you if I can ; 

For in all this vast throng there's but you that's a man! 

Then came the dog's master, who found it so wet. 

And he sought now to fondle his dearly loved pet 

In a loving embrace. — but it clung to the boy 

With many plain manifestations of joy. 

While its glance towards its master said plain as it could : — 

' ' I '11 stay with this laddie because he is good. ' ' 

' ' Oh ! my little pet knows you are honest and true ; 

The dog's name is Gipsy, and well he loves you. 

But say, little man, how came you to save 

' A poor little cur ' from a watery grave f ' ' 

' k I know what it is to be friendless, ' ' he said, — 

"I've no friends, or home, now since Mother is dead — 

I know what it is to be hungry — forlorn — 

I Ve not tasted food, sir, since yesterday morn. 

And at night I must sleep where I happen to be — ■ 

And I thought this poor doggie was friendless like me. 

The gentleman's head was bowed low. — And he thought 
Of his sister, who married a poor drunken sot, — 
Ten years it had been since he last saw her face' — 
And five it had been since of her he lost trace. 



MAMMA'S STOBY 105 

For a moment he prayed — with heart beating wild : 
' ' Have mercy on her, as I pity this child ! ' ' 
Then aloud he said — as they moved through the throng— 
"<My dog will not come unless I take you along. 

So come home with me, 'Tis not good you should roam" — 

And he treated him kindly, and gave him a home. 

Then he sought the boy's kindred — here fate on him 

smiled, — 
The lad was his ndphew, — his lost sister's child! 
And now in his prayers he forgets not his joy — ■ 
He thanks the kind Father for sending the boy. 
Now children, who think you 'twas, out in the fog ? 
My dears, 'twas your Grandpa who saved the brown dog! 




106 POEMS BY CLARA A. MERRILL 



EVERY CLOUD HATH SILVER LINING 

(In response to "Pennies In The Box" by R. F. D. carrier 
No. 1, Buckfield.) 

It is said that there are sunbeams 

Shining in the distant blue ; 
Tho' the dark and angry storm-clouds 

May obscure them from our view, 
Thus, mayhaps, the seeming hardships 

Of the rural carrier's lot 
Are but shadows, merely flitting 

Lest the sunbeams get too hot. 

Though at times, the mailman's fingers 

Are half frozen, and he talks 
Language of his own invention, — 

Cursing "pennies in the box." — 
Though obliged to doff his mittens 

In the zero wind, intent 
On opening an icy mail-box — 

Struggling w T ith a wayward ' ' cent. ' ' 

He should ne'er let angry passions 
Vex his spirit — cloud his brow, — 

For, beyond the sombre cloudlet 
There are sunbeams shining now ! 



EVERY CLOUD HAS A SILVER LINING 10: 

He can breathe "health-giving ozone" 

With no doctor's fees to pay — 
All distructive germs dispelling 

By "Fresh-air-cure" every day! 

He should count the many blessings 

That around his pathway creep — 
No matter if the path's blockaded 

By a snow drift hard and deep, — 
He should cultivate his patience 

With a fortitude most rare ; 
Ne 'er should frown beset his features — 

Never even wish to swear! 

These R. F. D. chaps should be happy, 

But, alas, contentment damps 
When they worry that "we patrons" 

Don't lay in a stock of stamps, — 
If they'd gather up our pennies 

And not grumble, they would see 
Each and every patron murmur 

Blessings on the R. F. D.!" 



108 POEMS BY CLABA A. ME KB ILL 



DENNIS 'NEIL'S DREAM 



Dennis O'Neil fell asleep one day 

And he dreamed from this life he had passed away 

And went to Heaven, w T here, at the Gate 

'Mong other pilgrims, he had to wait 

'Till came his turn to ask for grace 

To pass through the gates of that Holy place. 

At length the vast throng ceased to flow — 

A few entered the gate — the rest went below — 

And he found himself waiting where others had been 

'Till St. Peter should come and usher him in. 

Soon he heard the sound of hurrying feet 

Echoing out from the pearly street ; 

And, looking up, his eyes behold 

Not the Saint — but a friend of the days of old. 

With joyful smile they meet, embrace, 

And tenderly gaze in each others face. 

"Why Pat, old friend, so it appears 

You, too, have left the 'Vale of Tears' 

No more to dwell mid scenes of woe 

And the din and strife of the World below. 

How is it, then, do you think that I 

Can gain admittance if I try? 



DENNIS 'NEIL'S DEE AM 109 

A plea for me of course you'll make 

In my behalf for friendship's sake. 

"What must I do — if there should be 

A vacant place in there for me — 

Tell me now, I ask of you 

What is the first thing I must do ? ' ' 

"First/' then said Pat, "Inside the gates 

A pure and spotless Book awaits 

Where you — like each and every one 

Must write your name, What you have done, 

Your faults, your sins, every time you have lied, 

That you can recall till the day that you died. — 

Every dishonest act write out plainly and bold — 

For your chances are lost if one thing you withhold! 

"And how long is it, I'd like to know 

Pat, since you left the world below?" — 

"If I mistake not, it is ten 

Years I've with patience held the pen." — 

1 ' What errand calls you forth this morn ? ' ' 

"More ink," said Pat, "I must hasten on." 

"Ten years since you've been in this clime — 

And you've been writing all the time! 

Begorry then, its more than 'tis worth — 

And I think, on the whole, I'll go back to the Earth. 

— For really, you see, 'tis not worthy the strife — 

Sure, 'twould kape me at work all the days of me life!" 



110 POEMS BY CLARA A. MERRILL 



A LESSON WELL TAUGHT 

# # # * # # * 

Along down the street walked a dandy 

Who sported more beauty than brain ; 
He was dressed in an elegant fashion 

And carried a gold headed eane. 
With nothing to do, he was strolling — 

Just seeking amusement and fun. — 
But his practical joke caused him sorrow, 

And this is the way it was done. 

"Bah jove! here comes an old crone — 

Now excitement I anticipate ! ' ' 
And his vest was pulsative w r ith laughter 

Thus causing his cheeks to inflate. 
With a jug in her hand, and a basket, 

She was wending her way from the store, — 
A powerful woman from Erin's fair isle 

Weighing two hundred and ninety — or more. 

As she with quick footsteps approaches 
This intrigue he hastily planned: — 

To jostle against her, in passing, 
And knock the things out of her hand. 



A LESSON WELL TAUGHT 111 

And alas for the basket she cherished — 

He had planned but too wisely, and well, — 
The jug for an instant went whizzing — 

Then, broken to atoms, it fell. 

• 

But she had him fast by the collar — 

She shook him, then flung him down flat ; 
His legs broad-cast on the pavement 

Were thrown, and down on them she sat ! 
He writhed like a fish out of water — 

But in vain, for she held him down tight, — 
"Ah, me honey, I have the advantage 

An ' I 'm thinkin ' ye '11 stay here tonight ! 

What ye doin', ye black-hearted black-guard 

That ye can't let an ould leddy alone? 
Are ye meddlin' wid business of others 

Because ye have none of yer own? 
Ye have broken me jug — an' molasses 

Is spattered all over me dress — ■ 
But, begorra ! 'fore wid ye I 'm done 

Ye '11 be lookin' like me I guess!' 

She arose — and both his feet seizing 

Walked on, while he struggled and yelled ; 

But the more he struggled and shouted — 
So much the more firmly she held ! 



112 POEMS BY CLARA A. MEEBILL 

Through the pool of molasses she dragged him 

Until his immaculate shirt, 
His trousers, and coat of fine broad-cloth 

Was a mixture of molasses and dirt. 

"Ye blear-eyed spalpeen! A lesson 

I'll larn ye afore I'm content — 
Ye '11 not trouble agin an ould leddy 

Because she 's of Irish descent ! ! ! 
Arrah — but ye don 't get away aisy ! 

Will ye be done wid yer pratin', yer jokes? 
Shure there's no more honor about yer 

Than to any ould bullfrog that croaks ! 

An' a right sorry figure I'm thinkin' 

Ye look fer a "swate bloomin' youth!" 
Will ye show yerself to the fellers? 

Will ye tell yer ould Mither the truth ? 
Will ye tell her ye spilled me molasses — 

If ye do, will she say it was right 
To deprive an ould woman of somethin' 

To eat on her cold bread to night ? 

An' now, me molasses-cheeked dandy — ■ 
Ye may let this yer f eelin 's console : — 

If ye ever agin let me ketch ye 

I '11 thrash ye ! I will, by me soul ! ! ! 



A LESSON WELL TAUGHT 



IIS 



My advise ye had better be takin' 

If ye Ve got a shmall mind of yer own, — ■ 

When ye meet an ould woman that's Irish 
Her ye 'd better be lettin ' alone ! ' ' 



114 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEEEILL 



REMINISCENCE 



Tonight, of the Past I am thinking — 

Of one of the Autumn's bright days 
When the beautiful hills of old Hartford 

Were covered with October haze, — 
When the leaves, all russet and golden 

Came rustling down, and the breeze 
Seemed bent upon mischief, dispelling 

The radiant garb of the trees. 

Where the Oak and the Elm stand, defying 

The wrath of the tempest's fierce blast — 
Through the thicket, where warble the wild-birds 

And the chipmunk goes scurrying past. — 
To the brilliant-hued, picturesque landscape 

No color could artist e'er lend 
On this day, when o 'er hill and thro ' valley 

I wandered in search of a friend. 

In search of a dear loved one, dwelling 

In a quiet, surburban retreat — 
The friend whose kind manner e'er charmed me — 

Whom I long had been hoping to greet. 



REMINISCENCE 



115 



And I found her at last, my friend Emma ! 

As at last thro' the garden I walk. 
She was sitting quite close by the window— 

And I found her there — mending a sock! 




116 POEMS BY CLARA A. MEBEILL 



HUMOROUS 



"Oh!" said the chick 

To the white hen, ' ' Run, quick ! ' ' 
(They stood in the garden patch;) 

"Here's a woman coming 

Who will send us ahumming — 
She's determined she'll not let us scratch!" 

"Now if 'twere a man 

That yonder I scan" 
And her eyes she opened wide, — 

"And a rock he should throw 

We'd know where 'twould go 
And could easily dodge it one side, — 

But this is a Woman — 

A terror uncommon. 
What to do 1 'm sure I can 't see ; 

If a missile she throws 

It will veer, and, who knows? 
May by accident hit you or me ! " 



HUMOBOUS 11? 

"You silly chick," 

Said the white hen quick — 
"Much wiser I hope you'll soon be. — 

Just stand in your track 

When she makes an attack 
And your safety I will guarantee!'' 

AVhen, as it chanced. 

She firmly advanced. 
Hen and chicken with diligence scratched ; 

Xo verbal command 

Availed, so her hand 
A stone from the dusty loam snatched. 

To Southward she aimed — 

And hostilely proclaimed! 
( 'Twas just as the white hen said — ) 

The pebble flew forth. 

And, sailing due North, 
It struck her old man on the head! 



118 POEMS BY CLABA A. MEBBILL 



ONWARD FOR FREEDOM AND RIGHT 

(Written at the time of the Spanish- American War.) 

"All that there is in Cuba's land£ 

Is ours, and we shall reign; 
Or we will fight them till they die ! ' ' 

Thus comes the cry from Spain. 
1 ' They never shall their freedom have — 

We will rule with iron hand; 
They shall bow to us, they shall heed our laws 

Or we '11 drive them from the land ! ' ' 

"Ye cruel tyrants! Are ye men?" 

('Twas ' Uncle Sam' who spoke.) 
"Desist, or ye shall see this end 

In cannon roar, and fire, and smoke 
Ye worse than tyrants ! what have ye done ? 

Ye have pillaged, burned and destroyed — 
Ye have starved helpless men and women to death 

And the wailing of children enjoyed. 

Ye have tortured them with fiendish delight, 

And hundreds of people have slain ; 
Ye caused the death of our brave, noble men, 

Who went down in the wreck of the "Maine." 



ONWARD FOR FEEEDOM AiND RIGHT 119 

Ye can come to me if ye want to fight, — 
Ye can come with your jeer and taunt ; 

And ye can fight to your hearts' content. 
If fighting is what ye want. 

Our boys so brave, when duty calls, 

Will all their strength unite; 
And fight as long as there is need 

For freedom and for right. 
May the curse forever be wiped out 

That now the country mars; 
And peace restored in this fair land 

Where float the stripes and stars." 



120 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEEEILL 



A MYSTERY EXPLAIXED 



Hi Sambo — don ' yo ' talk dat way — 

Aint yo' a silly coon! 
A talkin' 'bout de mystery 

Ob de man date in de moon ! 
J tell yo' 'taint no mystery 

'Bout de moon, or how it acts, 
I reckon ef yo'd like to know 

/ kin tell yo' all de facts. 

'Tis dis : — Yo ' see when de world was new 

De moon was roun' an' clear; 
An' kep' a shinin' ebery night 

Jus' so, year arter year. — 
'Till dis man he done some drefful t'ing — 

He ran, but dey cotched him soon 
An' widout no odds dey banished him 

An' sent him to de moon. 

Dey see'd him lookin' down to earth 
Whar dey wouldn't let him stay; 

Den solemn like, an' bery slow 
He turn he face away. — 



A MYSTERY EXPLAINED 121 

An' arter dat de moon was new — 

Den half a moon dar '11 be ; 
Den de moon am roun', an' de man looks down 

On de Ian' an' on de sea. 

An' he gazes ober all de earth 

'Til he wants to see no more — 
Den he slowly turn he face away 

Jus' as he did before. 
Dese am de facts ob what yo ' call 

De "Mystery profound" — 
AVhen de moon keeps changing as yo ' see 

'Tis de man a turnin' round! 




POEMS BY CLAEA, A. MEEEILL 



A BIRTHDAY GREETIXG 



Your natal anniversary 

Once more around has crept ; 

And, as a token of respect 
Will you these flowers accept 

From all your friends ? And we do hope 
That they may bring delight ; 

And shed abundant cheer and joy 
From every petal bright. 

And as another year speeds on 

To swell the list of Time; 
We truly wish that each day may 

Be filled with Peace sublime. 

And may the Heavenly Father's grace 

Be with you on your way ; 
And keep you safely 'till returns 

Another glad Birth-day. 



ALL'S WELL THAT ENDETH WELL 



ALL'S WELL THAT EXDETH WELL 



The robins and the blue-birds sing 
In tones so sweet and clear; 

* ' Cheer up dear, Annie dear, 'tis spring 
And Summer time is near. ' ' 

The crocus soon will wake from sleep 

And lift its dainty head; 
The trailing arbutus will peep 

Out from its leafy bed. 

Dame Nature soon will deck the hills 
And vales in verdant clothes ; 

While 'neath the oak the brooklet trills 
Where blooms the blushing rose. 

Fair daisy sweet and buttercup 
The breeze will softly kiss; 

Then do not pine, dear friend, cheer up 
And share w r ith them their bliss. 

Let not your heart be troubled dear, 
The birds this message tell, — 

Ye faint at heart, be of good cheer, 
"All's well that endeth well." 



124 POEMS BY CLABA A. M'EREILL 



A TALE FROM MOUNTAIN GRANGE 

[This poem was written for, and read at the first meeting held 
after the completion of the new grange hall at North Buckfield, 
Nov. 1st, 1904. The poem was founded on facts, but in order to be 
more amusing for the occasion the incidents were, of course, 
somewhat exaggerated by the author, who was also a member of 
Mountain Grange.] 

Patrons and Friends: 

Within the annals of this Grange 

A circumstance occurred — 
And, be it true — Or otherwise, 

I'll give it as 'twas heard. 
When last winter's icy breezes 

Brought the welcome news, so strange 
That the ever staunch, and loyal 

Patrons of this Mountain Grange 

Decided to erect their temple 

Ere the coming of the Fall 
In the village of North Buckfield, — 

There to locate their new hall. — 
Ere the last glad trump had sounded 

Thro' the vales, and o'er the plain — 
Ere the zephyrs bore the echo 

To the rugged hills of Maine — 



A TALE FBOM MOUNTAIN GEANGE 125 

Ere the last faint notes were wafted 

To "Old Shack's" most distant peak- 
There a brave, and loyal patron 

Thus to himself did speak: — 
"I, Lucius Record, patron, member 

Of this Grange, a vow do make 
That / the very first will be 

The foundation ground to break. 

For I have read of honors great 

To "lay the corner stone/' 
I'll be the first to break the ground 

And do it all alone! 
And so, for months, this patron brave 

Did cherish in his breast 
A longing for the time to come 

Which gave him much unrest. 

' ' Old Father Time ' ' moved slowly on — 

The snow began to melt — 
The bleak earth showed in tiny spots 

Where Lucius Record dwelt. 
For aught else in the world, just then 

He neither cared nor feared; 
But watched those patches grow, until 

The snow had disappeared. 



126 POEMS BY CLAEA, A. MEBSILL 

To all who anxiously await 

Time slowly wears away; 
But at last — at last there came the eve 

Ere the eventful day. 
That night no sweet dreams came to him. 

No sleep his pillow sought ; 
But listened he to every sound 

With nerves most tensely wrought. 

And ere the sun's first rays arose 

To gild yon distant domes ; 
And shed their radiance upon 

These fair North Buckfield homes 
Arose he from his downy couch — 

And with his gleaming spade 
Proceeded he to carry out 

The plans which he had made. 

In silence marched he by Fred Heald's, 

Slow, stealthy as a mouse ; 
With bated breath, on tiptoe went 

Past Celia Dunham's house 
Lest she or Fred should be awake 

And chance to hear his step, — 
And thus — with soft, and cat-like tread 

He past the school house crept 



A TALE FEOM MOUNTAIN GBANGE 127 

And reached the spot where stands this hall 

When lo ! in yonder field 
He spied a form approaching near, 

And found 'twas Brother Heald 
And on the self same purpose bent ! 

Lute straightway feared the worst ; 
It but remained now to be seen 

Which one would get there first ! 

Lucius quickened up his pace 

Nor stopped for rocks or planks, 
Tis said his record equaled then 

The far-famed Nancy Hanks ! 
He nearly now his courage lost, 

The way seemed not so clear 
To be the first to break the ground 

With tother feller near. 

So in the road the spade he dropped 

And scooped it full of earth 
Then sprang with all his wondrous might 

And ran for all he's worth 
And dumped that sand upon the spot, 

And made a little mound — 
"Ah, ha!" quoth he, "Z am the first 

To break the Grange Hall ground ! ' ' 



128 POEMS BY CLABA A. MEBBILL 

Then with a sigh both turned away — - 

They felt somewhat — perhaps 
One like the 'Russians' at bay — 

The other like the 'Japs.'— 
The morning dawned with azure skies, 

And then the workmen came; 
Brad Damon and another man 

Sir William Brown by name. 

They saw the sand, and then one spoke — 

(The other followed suit.) 
' ' What tarnal fool done this, d 'ye spose ? 

I vum, I'll bet 'twas Lute!" 
The other answered, "I've no doubt 

'Twas him, but see these tracks — 
Now you don't spose dew ye, they 

Resemble Danville Jack's?" 



"Oh, no, taint Dan — I know 'tis Lute- 
To reason this appeals: — 

These tracks look like an Elephant 
While Dan's got Nigger heels!" 

Then exclamations volleyed forth, 
With laughter long and loud ; 

Just then Geo. Record's silvery voice 
Came ringing through the crowd: 



A TALE FROM MOUNTAIN GBAXGE 129 

"I say there, Bill! Tim Jones 'n me 

Will give fifty cents in change 
To whom will write this story up 

And read it in the Grange ! ' ' 
Five poetic pencils glibly glide — 

Low bends each thoughtful head — 
Presented for inspections, thus 

Brad Damon's poem read: — 

Lucius Record 

Sat up late, — 
Broke the ground — 

Honor great. 



Road to fame — 
Show's us how. 

Pile of dirt- 
Big's a cow. 

Danville Jack — 

Gloomy feels- 
Awfully fat— 
Xigger heels. 



ISO POEMS BY CLARA A. MERRILL 

Awfully solemn — 

Awfully mute — 
Sadly feels — 

Beat by Lute ! 

Walls of fame — 

Got Lute's name on — 

Poem complete — 
Bradbury Damon. 

- "By Gum! he's beaten us all!" they cried 
Between their tight — shut teeth; 
Then brushed away that pile of sand 

And saw what lay beneath ! 
They cried ' ' Let 's give three cheers for Lute ! 

Of him we have learned this day 
If we can't succeed just as we wish 
We'll do it as we may." 

Patrons, Friends: — 
Should aught arise within this Grange 

Which we don't understand; 
Let 's look beneath the surface then, 

Let 's clear away the sand. 



SONG OF THE GBANGEFS 131 



SONG OF THE GRANGERS' 

(Written for Mountain Grange) 

Away o'er the hills, or thro' valleys, 
Wherever I happen to be; 
Tis wafted along by the breezes, 
And comes like sweet music to me, 
As on, by the wayside I wander 
A Brother I happen to meet, — 
The hand-grasp is ever most cordial 
And this is the way that we greet, — 
Goin't the Grange? 

I stroll mid the tall waving grasses 
Where the laurel and sweet brier springs- 
Thence on, to the deep-shadow 7 'd woodland 
Where the brooklet so merrilly sings — 
How lulling the chirp of the cricket — 
How drowsy the hum of the bees. — 
I start. — for a voice speaking near me 
In deep tones utters words such as these- 
Goin't the Grange? 

Oh ! the tables so loaded with dainties 
We hail with the keenest delight ; 



132 POEMS BY CLARA A. MEBBILL 

The fruit, pies, and cake, we all welcome 
With faces so happy and bright. 
There's naught like the rich, amber coffee 
Great fervor and zest to impart — 
While the savory baked beans arid brown bread 
E 'er touch a deep chord in the heart — 
Goin't the Grange? 

Grange! name so laden with beauty 

I hail with the greatest of glee ; 
I love it, our dear banded Order — 
And ever a Granger Vll be! 
Oft I long as the season approaches 
The time for a "meeting" again 
To hear from the tumult of voices 
Re-echo this gladsome refrain: — 
Goin't the Grange? 

And may the bright Star of! the Heavens 
Ever guard and guide us aright — 
•May we all many times be permitted 
To meet here in ardent delight. 
May we ever be true to our Master — 
Prove faithful and honest in all; 
And be ready to answer the summons 
When the One great Master shall call 

To a higher and nobler Grange. 



UNCLE JOE'S SOLILOQUY 133 



UNCLE JOE'S SOLILOQUY 



Talk about your new inventions 

And the wonders of the age ; 
/ think the pesky foolishness 

Has reached the topmost stage ! 
The news that this here world is round 

Comes from some great man's mouth — 
And that 'tis hung onto a pole 

That goes from North to South. 

And I suppose that this here way 

Is the way to solve the riddle — 
Just take an apple up, and thrust 

A needle through the middle. 
And what is it they won 't do next ? 

For now, AVhy, 'pon my soul 
They say that larn'ed folks have tried 

To find the great North Pole ! 

I'd rather stay upon the land 

Than sail upon the sea ; 
Why can't them folks just stay at home 

And let the North Pole be ? 



134 POEMS BY CLABA A. ME E BILL 

Now I am kind of worried like 
For fear some of those men 

That 's sailing round and round the airth 
Will find the pole and then 

Some of them chaps who thoughtlessly 

At common sense will scoff 
Will take it into their wise heads 

To cut the North Pole off! 
And then what would become of us ? 

I'm sure I haint no notion — 
I spose that we, the world and all 

Would fall into the Ocean! 

And what a bad thing that would be — 

How dreadful is the sound — 
To let the world fall in the sea 

And all the good folks drown' d! 
I wish that them ere pesky folks 

Would let the pole alone; 
I think that they had better find 

Some business of their own! 

I wish some one would find them folks 
And try and make them see 

That they had better stay at home 
And let the North Pole be ! 



UNCLE JOE'S SOLILOQUY 



135 



If / should ever see them men 
As sure's my name is Joe 

They 11 find what my opinion is 
And I shall tell them so ! 



136 POEMS BY CLARA A. MEBBILL 



WHEN DADDY ROCKS THE KID 



Little daughter, fair and sweet 

With dainty baby charms; 
Making every joy complete 
As from mamma's arms 

Very tenderly she's laid; — 

(Mamma's smiles are hid — 
Sees the queer maneuvers made 
When daddy rocks the kid!) 

Darling, winsome as can be — 

Blossom sweet and rare ; 
Hears the tuneful melody 
From the rocking chair. 

Never heard such songs before, — 

(And guess he never did — ) 
Language new — and tunes galore. 
When daddy rocks the kid! 

Though forty times, ere day is done, 

From work he homeward comes; 
To hold his precious little one 

And see it suck its thumbs — 



WHEN DAiDDY EOCES THE KID 137 

Mamma, e'er with loving glance 

Sees new charms amid 
The beauties. Which the joys enhance 

When daddy rocks the kid ! 

When daddy rocks the kid to sleep 

He banishes all care ; 
And o'er his visage smiles will creep — 
Contentment's written there. 

Xo worldly sorrows cast their shade 

But vanish as they're bid. — 
A pleasing picture thus is made 
When daddv rocks the kid ! 




138 POEMS BY CLARA A. MERRILL 



STOP TALKIN 



When a feller gets his back up 

And his temper's in a muss; 
If he keeps a peckin' at ye — 

Tryin' hard to pick a fuss. — 
Jest ye go about yer bis-ness. 

'Course its aggravatin' — but 
Half the row will be averted 

If ye 11 keep yer talker shut ! 

Shut yer lips together firmly — 

Let the "other feller" groan, — 
Soon yell find the ranch deserted, 

For he will not fight alone. 
Ferocious bully 11 prove a coward, — 

If ye swerve not from the rut 
Of yer staunch determination 

That yell keep yer talker shut! 

Talkin' makes a heap o' trouble 
Out o' nothin', scandals great, — 

As one gossip, then another 
From the truth will deviate 



STOP TALKIN' 139 

'Till the color of the story 

Darker grows — I tell ye what, 
Wouldn't be so many heartaches 

If they 'd keep their talkers shut ! 

Talkin's right, if they would only 

Try to smooth the weary way 
Of some poor, lone, ship wrecked brother 

And a word of comfort say 
To the sick and weepin' dweller 

Of the rude and lowly hut. — 
Then, yes, then, the time is for ye 

Not to keep yer talker shut ! 

If ye try to see the many 

Virtues of yer feller men — 
And yer kindly acts uplift him — 

Ye are doin' nobler, then 
When to some heart yer words so cruel 

Gives a deep malicious cut. — 
If ye can't speak words of kindness 

Better keep yer talker shut ! 



140 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEBBILL 



A YULE-TIDE MISSIVE 
To my dear friend: — E. L. F. 

As onward Old Time is e'er rolling. 

And Slimmer again has gone by ; 
The sweet bells of Christmas are ringing, 

And wafting their music on high — 
Telling the same sweet old story, 

That ever emotion awakes ; 
Of Him who was born in a manger 

And Who suffered and died for our sakes. 

My wish is, that this day may bring you 

Very rich and abundant good cheer ; 
May yours be a bright happy Christmas, 

With friends that are ever sincere. 
It is willed that I cannot be with you — 

As you still linger ' ' down by the sea ; ' ' 
But my wish is — and may it be granted — 

That one thought-wave may reach you from me, 

Ere the bells have ceased ringing the tidings 
Of Peace and Good Will to all men," 

Old Santa will wake from his slumbers 
And, hobbling forth from his den 



THE YULE-TIDE MISSIVE 141 

He will harness his fleet footed reindeer 

To the sleigh, and away he will flee, — 
And eagerly on, he will hasten 

To bring you this message from me ! 

Though this has no value, excepting 

The love it contains in its fold, — 
Yet, love that is true and unfading 

To me is more precious than gold. 
So, when you shall weigh in Worth 's balance 

The gifts you receive on this day ; 
Surely mine will not be found wanting, 

For Love will be sure to out- weigh. 

Were I sure, that, receiving this missive 

You should feel just one pang of regret 
That I cannot be with you this evening, 

It would fully repay me, and yet 
I know you'll transmit one thought message 

To me, from afar o 'er the plain ; 
While the sweet bells of Christmas are ringing 

And telling their story again. 

While the sweet bells of Christmas are ringing 

In accents of joy and of praise ; 
For the Babe in the manger, so blessed, 

As they rang in the dear by-gone days, — 



142 POEMS BY CLARA A. MERRILL 

May they ring as of yore, — And the blessing 
Of " Peace and Good Will" which they gave 

In the ringing decend o'er our Spirits, — 
Like music which wafts o 'er the wave. 

Buckfield, Me., 1911. 




THE HUNTEE 143 



THE HUNTER 



Traditions of a hunter tells — 

A hardy man, and stout ; 
Who ne'er used snow-shoes — for his feet 

Were large enough without ! 
With dog and gun, across-lots, he 

Would roam 'mong bush and stump ; 
Nor swerved he from the snow-drifts deep,- 

He 'd very seldom slump ! 

But once, 'tis said, he sank far down 

While crossing o'er a field; 
The damp snow caved upon his feet 

And there he stuck — and squealed! 
Then, standing like a statue 

Beneath the sun 's warm glow — 
His feet, like steamship's anchor 

Fast pinioned under snow. 

He one mighty effort made — 

He gave a piercing yell, — 
The language wafted far and wide 

E 'en Echo ne 'er would tell ! 



144 



POEMS BY CLAM'A A. MEEEILL 



His pleading tones reached listening ears 
And help soon reached the spot. — 

And altho ' more we fain would know 
Tradition telleth not. 




THE POETRY MACHINE 145 



THE POETRY MACHINE 



Pray, have you ever heard about — 

Or have you ever seen 
That Pearl of Ingenuity — 

A Poetry Machine? 
The wonderous thing is fashioned 

With most exquisite skill; 
Designed precisely to obey 

The operator's will. 

When touched by ' ' Muse 's ' ' magic wand 

The thought-waves throb and spout; 
Then, by the turning of the crank 

It grinds the verses out. — 
The sweet, poetic stanzas 

Of equal length will be; 
Then, clipping off the ragged lines 

It makes a poem. — See? 

And 'tis an elegant thing to have 

When you're "down in luck" you think- 

(And the only cost is a trivial sum 
Of some of your mental chink.) 



146 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEEEILL 

When e 'er the world seems going wrong 

And you your courage lose ; 
Get out your "Poetry Machine'' 

And drive away the "blues." 

Just turn the crank — Sad thoughts will flee 

As the cog-wheels whirr and buzz, — 
There 's naught can raise one 's spirits up 

Like the "Verse Mill" always does! 
Let the rippling, rollicking rhymes roll out 

With a clamor, a clash, and a clang ; 
Then punctuate each line with a laugh — 

Be one of the "Jolly Gang!" 

There will steal a soothing sense supreme 

As we linger 'neath the spell, — 
As steal sweet strains from Seraphic Song 

Far o'er the Ocean's swell 
Or like soft breezes whispering 

O'er the sun-kissed, mossy bank, — 
With sweet, poetic fancies rife 

If we but turn the crank! 



OCTOBER 147 



OCTOBER 



Down, the faded leaves are drifting, 

From grey branches overhead; 
All summer birds have taken flight, 
The grass is sere and dead. — 

The brown earth tells us Summer's gone — 
The frost lies white at early morn. 

October 

See! now is yon distant landscape 

Clothed in warm and purple haze ; 
Redolent with ripen 'd harvests 
Of the Indian Summer days. 

Bright — ye golden days — and glad, 
Beautiful, yet erstwhile sad 



October 



Now the corn, no longer waving. 

Shocked, stands waiting for the bin ; 
Choice fruit and garden products 
Soon will all be gathered in. 

Golden pumpkins, piled up high, — 
Indicative of lucious pie ! 



October ! 



148 POEMS BY CLARA A. MERRILL 



TO MARY 



Dear Mary: The sweet bells of Christmas 
Are ringing out vibrant and true, — 

As I list to their music in gladness 
I am thinking of Danville and yo it. 

So Sister, I'm sending this picture — 
You will see at the Ward at the right 

A little X marked o'er the window, 
Where a star peeps in at me at night. 

You know w T here my cot is, you fancy — 
Tho ' your vision of me is not clear ; 

Yet you know 7 on that cot I am lying — 
You have Faith to believe I am here ! 

Then now, as the sweet chimes are pealing 

In accents so joyous and rare ; 
Look, in Faith, towards the window of Heaven 

And believe that our Saviour is there! 



THE WINDS DO BLOW 149 



THE WIXDS DO BLOW 

[Written while the author was a patient at the Maine State 
Sanatorium, Hebron, Me.] 

There's danger that some of these gales 

Will lay this Cottage level — 
For every other day, at least, 

The wind blows like the deuce. 

Should it occur, the chances are 

That all the fields and lawns 
From here down to "West Minot" will 

Be scattered o'er with "Cons. " 
Then Dr. Garrison, Dr. Knowles 

And Dr. Nichols, too, 
Will have to search o 'er hill and dale 

To find which way we blew ! — 
And all the nurses, too, will run 

As fast as e'er they can 
And help to bring "us patients" back 

To this gale-stricken San! 
Sure, if the wind strikes "Greenwood Hill" 

With such an awful boom 
We shall go sailing through the air 

Like AVitches on a broom! — 



150 



POEMS BY CLARA A. MEEEILL 



Whiz-Zip-Crash-Bang-Oh, Ugh!— My face 

Is full of whirling snow ! ! — 
It's blown the coverings off my bed ! ! ! — 

Ah yes, "the winds do blow!" 



Jan. 1913. 




FAREWELL TO THE SAN 151 



FAREWELL TO THE SAN 

To Dr. N. :— 

My stay here has been quite extended, 

And many long months now are gone ; 
But soon my sojourn must be ended, 

For now I 'm not sick with the ' ' Con. ' ' 
My heart may have an " affection " — 

Yet do not imagine I'm ill, — 
For I'm sure that, in case of detection 

It would baffle your medical skill. 

The "Microbe" lies hidden, tho closely you scan, 

Yet it lives! Now, sad to relate; 
One grievance exsists which I owe to the San — 

Oh dear, I have gained so in weight ! 
No more like a fairy am I. — Yet 'tis true 

It is lovely to come here and rest, — 
It's a fine place to thrive — For see, even you 

Are not very small round the vest ! 

Oh no ! and if ever I meet with a friend 

Who is built on the skeleton plan 
And wishes some fat on the ribs, I intend 

To tell him to come to the San ! 



152 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEEEILL 

I'm sorry to leave Greenwood Mt. so fair 
And the scenes I Ve so long dwelt amid, — 

I know I have been an annoyance and care 
Like a naughty refractory kid. 

But vain are regrets. — So why let them tend 

Toward the past ? — Let ill memories flee ! 
Yet this will I say : Dr. Nichols — Kind friend 

I thank you for your kindness to me. 
And I hope the Good Father who rules over all 

By an all-wise and infinite plan 
May guide and bless you, what e're may befall- 

And rich blessings send down to the San. 



The San Poetess. 




WE ENOW NOT WHY 153 



WE KNOW NOT WHY 



'Tis true, to some 

Good luck will come 
As we go life's path along; 

While to others here 

There's naught of cheer, 
And every thing goes wrong. 

Yet we cannot know 

Why it is so — 
For a few there is peace complete; 

The while for some 

There is not a crumb 
From the loaf of comfort sweet. 

Some know not the turmoil 

Of struggle and toil — 
Yet there 's enough and to spare for those 

Who can live at their ease 

And do as they please — 
And their crown is entwined with the rose. 



154 POEMS BY CLAEA A. MEEEILL 

While others there are 

From near and afar 
Who by "sweat of the brow" earn their bread; 

And 'tis very sweet 

To those who may eat 
Who by their own efforts are fed. 

As God made the rich 

And poor alike which 
Will be guarded and led not astray? 

And which, do you ween, 

Will wear the bright sheen 
When they get to the end of the way ? 

To some he sends woe — 

We know not why 'tis so — 
But he chasteneth all more or less ; 

Where sorrow and strife 

And burdens are rife, 
These will He especially bless. 

When o'er trials we sigh 

To Him we should fly 
Who doeth all things for the best ; 

When comes the release 

There'll be eternal peace 
In that beautiful Haven of Rest. 



WE KNOW NOT WHY 155 

Let the rich help the poor, — 

Drive the wolf from the door — 
In the sorrows of others take part : 

And He will receive 

All "ye who believe' ' 
And come with a pure sinless heart. 



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